


Hung

by flute25



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, a plot shall reveal itself, btw ahsoka and qui gon talk A LOT, but for now enjoy, but here we are, crossposted from tumblr, i have no idea where i am going with this, lineage feels, obi wan punching qui gon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flute25/pseuds/flute25
Summary: A routine sweep of Coruscant's underlevels goes sideways when Obi-wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka encounter a specter of the past.A Qui-gon!lives AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started with an innocent [ tumblr prompt ](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/post/178961877368/also-i-read-this-fix-the-other-day-and-it-was) about Obi-wan punching Qui-gon and just...spiraled from there.
> 
> I have no idea where I am going with this, but tally ho!

“You’re…”

“Alive. Yes, Obi-wan.”

Obi-wan stared at the other man, his eyes wide and unblinking, mouth hanging open with the last vestiges of an attempt at coherent speech.

Ahsoka had to fight to not stare at Obi-wan, instead directing her attention towards a particularly nasty, yellowish stain on the side of a nearby decrepit building _._  

This was Obi-wan! Obi-wan, who always knew what to say! Obi-wan, who was  _the Negotiator_ , for  _kriff’s_  sake!

Obi-wan, who now stood mute, looking for the first time in her memory like a lost Padawan.

But she supposed having your dead Master miraculously return from the grave during a routine sweep of Coruscant’s lower levels would be enough to shock anyone into silence.

 _So this is Master Qui-gon._  Two thoughts immediately struck Ahsoka. Firstly,Qui-gon was  _tall_. Taller than Skyguy by at least a head. It occurred to her that Obi-wan was the shortest in their little extended family, now that Ahsoka had hit another growth spurt, the tips of her montrails now edging above the top of Obi-wan’s hair (she had a suspicion that some days he put extra product in it so his coif would sit a little higher, masking his quickly decreasing stature next to her and Anakin).

Apparently, he was doomed to be the shortest of their lineage, not counting Master Yoda.

Her second thought, however, quickly dispelled the warm humor she felt at Obi-wan’s occasional lapses into vanity.

This was Obi-wan’s  _Master._ Obi-wan’s Skyguy.

It was weird to think that Obi-wan had been a Padawan at all. He was the type of person, of Jedi, who she was sure had just appeared in the Temple a fully-formed Jedi Master, replete with wisdom and sharp tongue and beard and lightsaber skills. But Obi-wan  _had_  been a student, just like her, and he had had his own teacher, a man who he trained with until he was twenty-five, according to Anakin.

A man who had been murdered in front of Obi-wan’s eyes, if the rumors were true, by a  _Sith_.

Obi-wan  _never_  talked about it. Only once, near the beginning of her apprenticeship, he had taken her for a cup of caf at a dingy diner. They had sat for a good hour, Obi-wan relating the somewhat sordid history of her lineage of masters and apprentices. And while Obi-wan had been generous with his stories (especially concerning Anakin), he had only said that Qui-gon had been killed about ten years before the war and shortly thereafter Obi-wan had taken Anakin as a student.

The end.

She had never pushed, at least not directly, for more of an answer. Even Skyguy, who normally had no issue leaping high over Obi-wan’s personal boundaries, stayed quiet about the issue. One night, when they had been stuck in a muddy, wet trench for three days, half-starved, semi-delirious, and fully miserable, Skyguy had told her about the beginning of his own apprenticeship. How Obi-wan had been distant, almost cold towards him. How Anakin had missed the tall, warm man whom he saw as a savior, who had found him on Tatooine and offered a new life away from that dusty backwater. (Ahsoka had a strong feeling there was more to  _that_  story, as well.) How Obi-wan had been called into Council meeting after Council meeting that first year, coming back to their quarters late at night, muttering about political necessity and Jedi confidentiality, shutting the door as soon as he was satisfied that Anakin at least  _appeared_  to be asleep.

Ahsoka turned to look at her Master. She tried to imagine how she would feel if  _he_  were killed, if Anakin was run through with a lightsaber right now, before she could do anything. If she were to be shuttled off to another teacher, instructed to release her grief into the Force and move on. Or worse, Knighted out of necessity, suddenly cut adrift with the full responsibility of being a Jedi on her shoulders.

Cold dread bubbled up Ahsoka’s throat. No, she did not like that idea at all.

But then - what if Anakin came back? One, five, ten years later?

Wht if he had returned after she had grieved, had tried to fill the black hole she knew would be torn in her mind and body with the loss of her teacher, her advisor, her best friend?

It was beyond her. Even just trying to imagine a quarter of it seemed a distant, potent nightmare.

How  _had_ Obi-wan dealt with it all?

A hesitant, gravely voice interrupted her thoughts. “Obi-wan?” Qui-gon asked.

Long brown and grey hair fell past his shoulders, partially tied back in a loose ponytail. Qui-gon looked  _tired_ , almost bedraggled, the lines in his face tightening in response to Obi-wan’s stony silence. His anxiety bobbed through the Force, a buoy in the azure river she was beginning to identify as Qui-gon’s Force energy (so different from Skyguy’s near-hurricane of power or Obi-wan’s monolithic, nearly implacable wall of violet.) Qui-gon was water - flexible, adaptable, feeding into and from the living Force around him.

The violet barrier quivered. Glancing over, she saw Obi-wan was nearly vibrating with tension.

“You’re alive,” he finally stammered, his brow furrowing.

Qui-gon threw Obi-wan a half-smile. A sheepish expression, which was more plea than apology.

“Padawan, I am - “

The Force shuddered again and Ahsoka was certain they  _all_  felt it, judging from Anakin’s widening eyes and Qui-gon’s worried quirk of his eyebrows. A distant warning was sounding in her mind, similar to the alarms on the Republic warships, but unlike battle, she had no procedure, no training or experience to fall back on to prepare herself for any possible outcomes.

Obi-wan took a calculated, stiff step forward, clenching his fists.

“You’re. Alive.” He all but chewed through the words.

Qui-gon’s smile faltered, and he held up two large palms, placating.

“Obi-wan, I can explain - “

The Force exploded. Ahsoka reeled, her vision going dark as sharp, psychic shrapnel bombarded her brain. She put a hand to her head, digging into her own reserves to clear her mind just in time to watch Obi-wan launch a fist into Qui-gon’s face.

Anakin shouted, lunging at Obi-wan.

“Obi-wan! What the  _kriff_?”

It was like a scene from a holodrama. Qui-gon, bent over, holding his jaw, wincing. Anakin inches away from Obi-wan, having stopped just short from physically restraining his former Master. And Obi-wan himself, his expression unreadable, but the aftershocks of his outburst pulsating in the Force.

No one moved. Ahsoka’s chest strained, air attempting to push out her lungs. She was afraid to breathe. 

Still, no one moved. Obi-wan and Qui-gon had locked eyes in some bizarre, silent conversation. Ahsoka could feel the tension ratcheting up again, a steady buildup of pressure that she was sure was bound to explode in even more dramatic manner than before.

Pull a string too taut, and it will snap. Just when she thought that string couldn’t be pushed any further, Obi-wan let out a violent sigh, allowing his shoulders to hunch. He hung his head for a moment before taking an audible breath through his nose, brushing the sleeve of his tunic with his opposite hand. Obi-wan reached into his utility belt, fishing out a silver communicator, which he held with shaking fingers before tossing it to Anakin, who caught the device on pure instinct.

“Tell the Council I’ll be offline for a few hours,” he croaked.

Anakin shot Obi-wan a wide-eyed look of panic, giving the barest of nods as his brain rushed to catch up with the events of the past few minutes.

Obi-wan put his hands on his hips, pausing to give Qui-gon one more icy glare, before spinning on his heel, stalking off in the direction of the turbolifts.

“Master, wait!” Anakin stammered, his face the picture of confusion. “Where are you going?”

“For a drink,” Obi-wan called over his shoulder, giving the trio a dismissive wave of his hand before disappearing into the nearest turbolift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-wan, what the hell?
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! [@legobiwan](https://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) (Star Wars/Obi-wan Kenobi) ||[@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/) (MCU/Loki)
> 
> (send suggestions! I'm totally willing to take prompts for this story as I only have a very vague outline of where this is going...)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some poor soul on Tumblr wanted the aftermath of "the punch," complete with drunk!Obi-wan.
> 
> Here we go...

It hadn’t been too difficult to find the place, despite the warnings of the grumpy Snivvian ticket taker at the turbolift station.

“ _Place doesn’t exist,” he had grumbled, not bothering to take his eyes from the holomagazine propped on his rather prodigious stomach, which hid all but a hint of leg attached to small boots propped on a nearby desk. “Went out of business year ago.” He punctuated the statement with a small sniffle, running a thick sleeve under his nose. The Snivvian glanced at the slimy residue on his clothing, eyeing it with a mix of trepidation and scholarly interest before wiping it on the edge of the table._

_“Tissue?” Qui-gon offered, holding a spare rag in his outstretched hand. It had taken quite a while for his nose to stop bleeding, and he had stuffed some extra fabrics in his utility belt just in case it started up again._

_Obi-wan, it seemed, had developed quite the right hook in his absence._

The Snivvian hadn’t been completely wrong, Qui-gon thought as he walked down the desolate side street. It certainly looked as if the place didn’t exist, being situated between a used speeder dealership and an out-of-business florist. Qui-gon paused in front of the large storefront window. Empty vases were still stacked in the display, a few dried corpses of flowers drooping from their empty mouths.

Qui-gon allowed himself a moment to wonder about the owners. Perhaps they had been the last of the native Coruscant businesses that were slowly being eaten up by off-planet interests, something he had noticed when he was alive…the first time. Most decorative floral arrangements came from imports, if he remembered correctly, as Coruscant itself boasted few native species, and even fewer that could be considered “aesthetic.” Access to off-world plants was difficult and expensive, and he imagined that was even more so now, due to the war. 

_More likely they were smugglers operating a front for a more insidious business._

Qui-gon sighed at his own cynicism, letting the thought slip into the Force. He was eager to maintain some semblance of equilibrium, of balance, but a million questions whirled around his mind.

Just how long had this conflict been going on? How did it start? Who was the leader of this opposition and why?

And why were the Jedi at the center of it all, at the vanguard of the violence and suffering that had all but screamed at him through the Force when he had woken in that warehouse in The Works, heaving for air, dark cold penetrating his body?

Qui-gon paused in front of the unassuming door, reaching out with his senses. His nose tingled at the faint, sour aroma emanating from inside, highlighted by hints of cheap whiskey (although not so cheap as to strip the lining from one’s stomach) and off-brand t’bac (not  _quite_  counterfeit, but not exactly the real item, either).

It was perfect, really - a bar just mediocre enough to deter any upper-level politician while keeping away the party-goers and spice dealers of the lower levels. An ideal place to disappear and drown one’s sorrows, especially if that person was a Jedi.

_Well done, Padawan._

The tension that had been wreaking havoc on Qui-gon’s body several hours earlier began again to creep up his spine, his neck tightening, shoulders hunching close to his ears. 

He could turn around and leave, wait for Obi-wan to drink whatever tumultuous emotions he was experiencing out of his system. And Qui-gon  _knew_  the next day, it would be as if nothing had happened. Obi-wan would be polite and deferential and  _never say a word about what had happened again._  

It would be the easier option. Obi-wan would be sent back to the front, Qui-gon kept at the Temple for questioning, and that would be the end of it.

Just like he and Dooku. A slow separation, until the man who had raised him was practically a stranger.

Qui-gon shook his head. No, he wouldn’t waste this, the chance the Force had given him to at least attempt to right whatever wrongs, whatever pain he had caused his former Padawan. 

And so with a deep breath, he threw a final prayer to the Force and pushed inside the bar. 

The space was somewhat larger than one might have guessed from seeing the outside. A smattering of tables and booths stood near the curved walls, which were adorned with the usual array of half-torn posters and advertisements. Lighting was at a premium, but Qui-gon recognized the faded glint of corroded metal - speeder parts repurposed as decor. 

 _How convenient_.

Several patrons turned to stare at Qui-gon with deep suspicion. He swallowed over the growing lump in his throat, raising his palms in front of his body in the universal signal for peace. A Rodian in the corner narrowed his eyes and whispered to his hooded companion, who listened and then nodded. Apparently content that he was at least not a threat, the two went back to their drinks and conversation, ignoring the interloper. The others followed suit thereafter, the wary discontent rumbling through the Force now a muted disinterest.

One of the only beings to  _not_  stare at him was seated at the bar in the middle of the room, shrouded in a dirty, ragged brown cloak about his shoulders, red-brown hair shining under the one passable light in the entire bar.  He was the only human in the establishment and definitely the only other Jedi within a five-level radius.

Qui-gon quietly slid into the seat next to Obi-wan, stomach fluttering somewhere near his eyeballs.

Obi-wan was a void in the Force, so tight was the curtain he had pulled around his own presence. He said nothing as Qui-gon motioned to the bartender, indicating that he would have one of whatever Obi-wan was drinking. 

Qui-gon folded his hands together, placing them on the bar. He stared at the patterns of multi-colored stains on the counter, stealing glances to the side as he waited for his drink. Obi-wan sat, sipping the amber liquid from his own glass, staring at the walls, past the walls, possibly past the entire planet.

It was only when the Harch bartender returned with an entire bottle of what seemed to be knockoff Corellian whiskey that Obi-wan snapped out of his reverie, watching Qui-gon’s protestations with clinical detachment.

“I only wanted a glass,” Qui-gon said.

“You said you wanted what he’s having,” the bartender replied, pointing a clawed digit in Obi-wan’s direction. It was only then that Qui-gon noticed the bottle in front of Obi-wan, three-fourths empty. “And that’s what he’s been having,” he added, scuttling away with an annoyed  _click_ of his mandible.

Qui-gon regarded the bottle in equal parts trepidation and horror.  _Well, if I must_ , he relented, pouring a thumbful into a water-stained glass, downing the liquid in one go.

Fire erupted from his lungs and Qui-gon let out a strangled, pained sound as he let out a series of violent, deep hacks. His eyes watered and heat rose in his cheeks, turning his face bright red.

_Dear Force, what *was* that stuff?_

Obi-wan made no move to help, didn’t respond at all as Qui-gon fought to regain control over his body. It occurred to Qui-gon between gasps that this was already not going well.

_He might not even want to see me again. Force, he might be a completely different man than the Padawan I raised. Certainly I misconstrued his taste in drinks, if this is any indication._

Obi-wan raised his eyebrows, as if he had heard the inner dialogue. In one swift movement, he drained the remainder of amber liquid in his glass, slamming the tumbler down on the counter with finality before turning to face Qui-gon.

“You.”

It was more an accusation than anything else, as if Qui-gon’s sudden reappearance in the realm of the living was an affront to all of Obi-wan’s sensibilities.

“Erm…” Qui-gon stuttered, all rehearsed apologies and speeches promptly forgotten under his former student’s withering glare.

Obi-wan pursed his lips and hummed before turning his attention to his empty glass, the bartender, and then the partially consumed bottle in succession. After allowing his gaze to linger, he seemed to come to a decision, taking the bottle by the neck.

Qui-gon frowned. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he said, already cursing himself for his inability to keep his mouth shut.

 _He is an adult, not your student - if Obi-wan wants to drink himself into an early grave, let him_ , he thought, with no little degree of petulance. 

But Obi-wan only shot him an enigmatic smile, a bemused expression falling over his face.

“You’re right,” he said, reaching into his belt as he stood, legs shaky, bottle still in hand. Obi-wan took a handful of credits and threw them on the bar counter.

“You’re right,” he repeated, “it’s not a good idea. We should take this outside. People have an unfortunate tendency to…” Obi-wan swayed, chuckling to himself. “To be parted from their limbs in these situations.”

“The Council might throw me off if it happens again,” he added, now grinning madly as he made an uneven saunter out the door.

Qui-gon stared, open-mouthed after his former Padawan. But just as he made to follow, a scaly limb grabbed him by the shoulder.

One of  _six_  limbs.

“Haven’t seen him this bad since some business on Rattatak,” the bartender clicked, his jaw far too close to Qui-gon’s ear for comfort. “You know about any of that?”

 _Rattatak?_   _What had Obi-wan been doing on that isolated, unforgiving crag?_

“No,” he managed to respond. “I was…”  _Dead._  “…on an extended mission. Very far away.”

_Very extended, Qui-gon, you fool._

The Harch hammered at his shoulder twice, a gesture Qui-gon  _thought_  was supposed to be comforting.

“Well, I’m glad there’s someone looking out for him. First time I’ve seen him in here with a friend, you know? Gods knows he needs it, poor lad. War must be taking its toll mighty hard on him.”

Qui-gon grimaced. He doubted that he counted at all as “friend” right now, and the bartender’s observation only compounded his own worries. Qui-gon pulled at the collar of his tunics. It was becoming difficult to breathe in the hot and humid interior of the bar.

Possibly noticing his discomfort, the Harch gave him a final pat on the shoulder before scurrying back to his place behind the counter. Qui-gon stood motionless, uncertain of what exactly he should do, beyond emulating his student and grabbing the nearest bottle to hole up in a corner booth.

 _Nothing comes from indecision_ , Master Dooku would always say.  _Well, this would certainly lead to something - possibly a broken nose_ , Qui-gon rued as he marched out the door.

A slight breeze played on the Jedi’s face as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Qui-gon was grateful to be out of the bar, the cool night air already doing wonders for his tattered nerves. The corridor was no better lit than the bar itself, with most of the overhead lights out of commission, and the red emergency exit lights gave the area an eerie, portentous glow.

Where is he, Qui-gon thought, now more than a little annoyed. Obi-wan was obviously drunk, and who knows where he could have gone. Really, it was irresponsible for a Pad -

_But he isn’t._

“Not for quite some time,” a familiar voice called from a dark corner.

Qui-gon stepped forward, tentative. A shadow fell over a series of posters on the wall of the former floral shop. Advertisements for certain corporeal services, shady loan agencies, invitations for modeling that were too good to be true. This wasn’t a  _seedy_  part of Coruscant, per se, but it certainly wasn’t the most reputable one, either, and Qui-gon wondered where Obi-wan picked up this particular penchant of hanging around dive bars and dark alleys.

 _Probably from me_ , he thought wryly.

“No, Obi-wan. You aren’t a Padawan anymore. Far from it, from what precious little I’ve gleaned about you in the past twenty-four hours.” And Qui-gon doesn’t  _mean_  to sound so acerbic, so bitter, but Obi-wan hasn’t exactly welcomed him with open arms, hasn’t shared a scintilla of goodwill, not even the shade of a smile at the fact that Qui-gon was alive.

No, Qui-gon got  _punched_  for his efforts.

“How nice of you to notice,” Obi-wan slurred, waving his arm in an exaggerated motion. “What gave it away? The beard? The chaos in the galaxy at large? My former student - oh,” Obi-wan fixed him with a vicious stare, his tone turning to absolute acid, “I mean to say  _your_  former Padawan, right? After all, that  _was_ the intention, was it not? Your old student, now with a student of his own?”

Obi-wan took a large swig from the bottle, lurching to the side.

“My, my how time flies when you’re  _dead._ ”

Qui-gon  _cringed._  This was not what he envisioned, not at all how he had wanted this conversation to go, and now it was spiraling beyond his control, Obi-wan’s acrimony towards him teetering toward utter  _loathing_  - beyond what he could have possibly imagined. 

“Actually, Obi-wan, all I needed to do was read the date on the holopaper,” he replied, hoping his tone was even, that it betrayed none of his own growing feelings of discontent, that his placid demeanor would be an antidote to Obi-wan’s increasing and uncharacteristic bellicosity.

And it seemed to work - after a fashion. Obi-wan’s eyes widened - unfocused, his pupils far too dilated. And then he threw his head back and laughed, rough and wild, and Qui-gon watched in horror as Obi-wan brought the bottle to his lips again.

“So. I suppose you’ve caught up on the  _spiraling_  disasters of the galaxy, then?” The slurring was becoming more evident, Obi-wan’s normally refined, polite manner of speech devolving with each sentence.

“After a fashion.” Qui-gon forced his voice into a breezy easiness, as if they were discussing the weather. “There is war,” Qui-gon admitted, “There is suffering and destruction. The exact circumstances are still a mystery to me.”

To be honest, he hadn’t even needed to read the news to know that much. The discord in the Force - the way it wept, had contorted, had been  _torn_ , rent from the inside out - that had been all he needed, the way it had nearly bowled him over, so oppressive was the dark shadow when he came to in that dark and dusty warehouse.

“Well, let me fill in the gaps, then,” Obi-wan said, leaning his hip against a grimy cargo box. “A delightful turn of events you’ve missed here. Padawans trained to kill. Jedi Masters,” Obi-wan paused to point at himself in dramatic fashion before flipping a jaunty little salute in Qui-gon’s direction, “made Generals. The Council! Which now includes me, by the way - at the beck and call of every unsavory politician this side of Coruscant.”

Qui-gon’s chest tightened. He had feared something like this, but couldn’t imagine what had pushed Master Yoda over that cliff, what could possibly have caused the Council to go to such extraordinary lengths to placate certain factions of the Republic government. 

And Obi-wan, on the  _Council_ , for kriff’s sake! Qui-gon shook his head. He would have to meditate on that piece of information later.

Then there was Obi-wan himself, who looked  _tired_ , bordering on haggard. And while the shock of the day and excessive consumption of alcohol was no aid, Qui-gon could see the sheer fatigue etched in the creases in his Padawan’s brow, the premature crinkles near his eyes, the bitterness which crept into his voice, born of some deep metaphysical wound.

“Tell me, Qui-gon,” Obi-wan had perched himself on top of the cargo box, arms crossed, one hand holding his chin. It was such an  _Obi-wan_ posture, and it nearly sent Qui-gon to his knees.  _His_  Obi-wan, not the man who exuded such  _sadness,_ such naked  _hostility_  behind his powerful Jedi Master persona.

“Did you speak well of me?”

Qui-gon’s jaw nearly hit the ground, and he brought a hand to the back of his own neck to protect himself against the emotional whiplash this conversation was giving him.

 _At least we’re talking,_  Qui-gon thought,  _even if Obi-wan is three syncloths to the Tatooine sandstorm right now. Plus, he hasn’t tried to punch me. Yet._

“I always spoke well of you, Pad - Obi-wan,” Qui-gon replied, hedging his bets in a game where the rules were everchanging.

Obi-wan snorted in response, laughing at some inside joke with himself.

“Let me rephrase the question then. Did you speak highly of me to Dooku?”

Qui-gon grabbed the edge of a nearby wall to steady himself.

_Dooku? What in nine Corellian hells does my former Master have to do with this all?_

“I - I did. I mean, the last time we spoke - it was quite some time ago, Obi-wan, and we weren’t all that close. But yes, I did speak very highly of you. About your intellect, your political savvy, your acerbic wit, your dueling skills in the  _Ataru_  form - “

“ _Soresu_ ,” Obi-wan interrupted, all humor drained from his voice. “ _Soresu_  form.”

Qui-gon quirked an eyebrow. Something else to be unpacked at a later time. “Yes, well, what I mean to say is that I had plenty to say about you. I was - and am - very proud of you, Obi-wan.”

Obi-wan stared in his direction, his expression gone suddenly blank.

 _Damn it_ , thought Qui-gon, this isn’t working. He took a large breath.

“And perhaps,” Qui-gon added quietly, “I would have done well to express that to you more often, it seems.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the two men. Qui-gon willed himself to reign in his whirling emotions, his tense desire to have Obi-wan acknowledge him, to give some kind of validation that all their time together hadn’t been for naught, hadn’t culminated in…in  _this_.

Obi-wan returned Qui-gon’s plaintive look and for a moment, Qui-gon could swear he saw Obi-wan’s eyes soften, could feel the ragged tension in the Force abate just a bit.

But it disappeared in an instant, the now-too-familiar hardness returning to Obi-wan’s eyes as he drained the rest of the bottle in his hand.

“That explains a few things about Dooku, I suppose,” he muttered darkly.

Cold disappointment flooded through Qui-gon. He hunched over, defeated, taking a seat on another pile of cargo boxes. This was it, then. Returned to life to face the rejection of the one man he was certain would be pleased to see him, the one person who Qui-gon knew he had failed, and needed to make it up to.

Qui-gon rubbed his face with his hand.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he uttered miserably.

“Happy?” Obi-wan responded. The Force stirred, not unlike it had right before Obi-wan had launched his fist into Qui-gon’s face. 

 _“Bic ni skana’din,”_  Obi-wan hissed, gripping the empty bottle with whitening knuckles. 

“ _Damn it all!”_  he yelled a second later, chucking the bottle at the wall, where it broke into a thousand pieces. “ _Happy_?!? Yes, of course I’m  _kriffing_  happy, Qui-gon!” Obi-wan exclaimed, the seal to his pent-up frustrations now broken. “I’m also confused, angry, and - I can say this since I’m  _kriffing drunk_  - terrified!”

“You waltz right back in here, like nothing ever happened! And now what? Will you take Anakin under your wing like you always intended? Fix all my teaching mistakes, which I  _assure_  you are plenty. Will you go and convince Dooku to return from his sojourn to the  _kriiffing Sith?_  Tell him, ‘I’m alive, it’s okay, the Jedi weren’t complicit in my murder, they didn’t ask you all most affected to keep your mouths shut and lie for years!’”

Qui-gon froze, something unnamable clawing up from his gut. The world tilted on its axis until it fell, all the way down and back again, until everything inverted and black was white, good was evil and  _nothing_ was what it seemed.

_Dooku, a Sith?_

Obi-wan made a frustrated gesture, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper, not content to leave Qui-gon  _be._  “Maybe  _then_  he’ll stop harassing  _me_  to join him, will stop invoking your memory every time we meet, will stop playing mind games with me because there’s an awful part of me that knows he’s  _kriffing_  right.“

And the Force was stirring, uneven waves growing higher and higher as Obi-wan now came to face-to-face with Qui-gon, his gestures wild, voice growing steadily in volume.

“But why stop there, why not go and avenge your own death since I couldn’t. Go find the Sith - whose name is Darth Maul, by the way - who is very inconveniently still alive and has spent the last year haunting  _me_ , killing innocents in my name in some bizarre revenge scheme, gutting  _Satine_  in front of my very eyes  _ALL BECAUSE YOU COULDN’T WAIT TEN DAMN SECONDS IN A REACTOR SHAFT ON NABOO!_ ”

Obi-wan grabbed Qui-gon’s tunics, pushing the man hard into the nearby wall. Qui-gon’s head made a sickening  _crack_ as a jolt of pain traveled down his spine. Qui-gon prepared himself for another fist to the face, and this time he couldn’t even blame Obi-wan. Oblivion would be kinder than this reality.

Obi-wan released him with a scowl, weaving under the influence of emotions and alcohol, fists clenched and the Force was a  _maelstrom_  and then -

Obi-wan collapsed onto his knees and vomited.

Qui-gon remained frozen, watching the sorry tableau play out in front of him. Strained retching alternated with half-broken sobs as Obi-wan’s body fought the effects of the alcohol, of his outburst. After one final heave, Obi-wan sighed, eyes rolling in the back of his head and he passed out on the ground.

The sound of Obi-wan’s body hitting the pavement broke the spell. Qui-gon rushed to his former Padawan’s side, gathering the man in his arms, muttering long-forgotten words of comfort, phrases that brought to mind the phantom of a twelve-year-old boy with bright ginger hair. 

Qui-gon sat Obi-wan against the wall. Damp hair clung to the younger man’s forehead, and Qui-gon pushed it away, not caring about the vile mixture of sweat, vomit, and cheap alcohol that permeated his senses as he pulled the younger man closer.

In life - well, his previous stint at life - Qui-gon had been no healer, but now he placed a palm on Obi-wan’s head, using his still-paltry Force reserves to send a cool flow through his Padawan’s body. The effect was instantaneous - Obi-wan’s breathing evened, his pulse steadying, no longer erratic, skipping and hopping in frenzy. It would do nothing for the massive hangover the man would have tomorrow, but at least he could rest in some degree of comfort now.

The terrible deluge of accusations and confessions threatened to rise from Qui-gon’s gut, to reach out and rend him to pieces. Qui-gon took a shaky breath,  carefully swallowing each one. The taste was sour and unpleasant, like a terrible medicine. Qui-gon would not release these thoughts into the Force - no, not yet. Not before the wounds they both carried were drained, the infections treated, the connecting tissues grown anew.

He owed this much to Obi-wan. 

But for now, rest. He called Ahsoka on the communicator, informing her of their location and providing a delicate, mostly-truthful explanation of Obi-wan’s state. The young Togruta had a good head on her shoulders, and Qui-gon already sensed she would grow to be a fine Jedi Master, a testament to both Anakin and Obi-wan’s instruction. Even though Qui-gon had only known her for a few scant hours, he trusted her discretion in this situation.

Qui-gon sighed, a wave of fatigue crashing through his body as the adrenaline of the confrontation waned. He wrapped an arm around the crumpled form of his former Padawan, resting Obi-wan’s head on his own shoulder, threading his fingers through the man’s hair.

“I am so sorry, Obi-wan,” he whispered to the unconscious Jedi in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came without a prompt and devolved into...a lot of Ahsoka and Qui-gon. I have a vague idea of where I want to go with the Qui-gon!resurrection plot. Everything else is up for grabs, however. :o

Buildings zipped by in thick streaks of silver, grey, and neon light. The wail of a CSF siren rose, culminating in an eardrum-shattering shriek before dropping downwards, bending in pitch until it disappeared into the mellow, constant din that was Coruscant’s street life.

The aroma of fried _crispic_ and sticky _sweetmallow_ squares wafted through the small side alleys, their tendrils overcoming the dank pollution, weaving through beings clustered near crammed cafes, climbing tall steel walls, sneaking past half-open windows until finally settling on the stoplight at the bustling intersection that led to the upper levels.

Ahsoka’s stomach growled.

Clear blue eyes met hers, corners crinkling in amusement.

“I take it you haven’t managed to get to the cafeteria lately,” Qui-gon observed, the side of his mouth quirking upwards.

Ahsoka reasserted her grip on the steering mechanism, leather gloves squeaking against plastic in an echo of her own body’s protests of hunger.

“Erm…”

The bleat of a horn saved Ahsoka from trying to cobble together a more coherent response.

_“Green means go! I don’t got all day here!”_

The word moron hung over the two Jedi in the Force, like a Roonan lemon gone bad - tart, with a foul aftertaste, and likely to fall on one’s head. Behind them, an irate Iktochi was half-hanging out of his speeder, fists flailing in impatience.

“Perhaps we should recruit him into the Order, given the alacrity with which he was able to react to a green light,” Qui-gon murmured, just loud enough for Ahsoka to hear.

Ahsoka bit down on her lip, suppressing a laugh as she urged the speeder forward. _I can see where Master Obi-wan got his sense of humor from._ Although Ahsoka was certain Obi-wan had been born with a sarcastic quip on his tongue.

A pained groan from the backseat seemed to serve as a response to her thoughts. Ahsoka glanced over to Master Qui-gon, who had turned to lay a large hand on Obi-wan’s head, murmuring something she couldn’t quite decipher over the rush of traffic. She could feel the change in energy, however, the cool tendrils that extended from Qui-gon’s pale, blue Force presence. They reached out to Obi-wan, caressing the outer, spiky edges of his pain, dulling his senses until he fell still.

“How is he?” Ahsoka asked, once Qui-gon had situated himself in his seat again.

The older man sighed, rubbing his forehead with one free hand.

“He is in no immediate danger,” Qui-gon replied, voice cracking with fatigue. “Although I am afraid that he has a most unpleasant morning ahead of him.”

Ahsoka nodded in response, unsure of what else to say. Despite Qui-gon’s claims that Obi-wan was fine, she was still concerned. Dark circles ran round the man’s sunken eyes, and his face was nearly the color of Kaminoan laboratory, which was to say he had no color at all. And it certainly wasn’t every day you saw a member of the high Jedi Council drooling on themselves. For not the first time that evening, Ahsoka wondered why Qui-gon had called her and not Anakin for this somewhat delicate situation.

The whole day had been - well, she didn’t know what to make of it. Dead Jedi Masters come back to life. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, it went against every tenet she had learned, everything she knew about the Force and how it worked. The dead were one with the Force, scattered through the universe, an inseparable part of the light energy that ran through everything and everyone.

And to return from that, _after 10 years?_ It was impossible.

Mostly impossible.

It depended if you believed the stories.

There had rumors among her classmates, whispers of vessels of dark knowledge - of books and holocrons that held the sinister and vile secrets of the Dark Side. Including ways to cheat death.

A shiver ran up her spine, and she stole a glance at Qui-gon, who was watching the city whiz by out the side of the speeder, long hair flying in the wind, a wild mane of grey and brown.

No, Qui-gon wouldn’t have done anything like that.

Right?

Ahsoka’s gut twisted.

_You don’t know the man at all. Dooku - Dooku of all people was his Master! And now he’s alive, after being dead and you have no idea what he wants, no idea what he is even capable of._

Her hand strayed near her lightsaber as she looked at the older Jedi again, trying to feel for his Force presence without being noticed. Ahsoka caught the same sense as before - a river, flowing and placid, if a little weak. Maybe more like a stream, but still deep enough to get lost in.

It wasn’t exactly against the Code to prod at a Jedi Master’s Force signature. Not really. But it was bad form, to be certain. A kind of insult, that in under normal circumstances, could be considered quite grievous.

But this was a time of war - of betrayal and bloodshed. And with the shock of Qui-gon’s sudden appearance now dimming, Anakin back at the Temple, and Obi-wan incapacitated, she needed all the information she could get in order to defend herself.

Just in case.

And so Ahsoka extended her own Force senses and dove in.

The stream she had felt on Qui-gon’s surface gave way to a nearly endless expanse of blue and grey. Ahsoka bobbed up and down with the different currents, some cold, some warm, pushing and pulling her in a multitude of directions. Eddies of light swirled around her in frenzied patterns.

Ahsoka swam on. To her side was a forest of kelp and algae, of aquatic plants she couldn’t place a name to, which swayed and danced to a silent song. Again, she swam on, the light dimming with each stroke downwards. A series of _thuds_ caught her attention. Short, long, short, long, the hypnotic rhythm drew her forward, until she came to a mound of pebbles. Ahsoka stuck an arm out, entranced by this heartbeat, this lifebeat she felt coming from the stones. But just as her fingers curled around one, she noticed an eerie red light, just beyond the mound, coming from a cave she had not noticed before.

 _Wrong._ Something about it was deeply wrong. Ahsoka dropped the stone as instinct drove her to flee. Dark murmurs followed her like a swarm of insects, buzzing, nipping at her feet. She dove deeper, away from the red light. Sound faded to silence, light to darkness, thick and opaque as a Mustafaran porridge.

A total vacuum, as if she were stranded in open space.

Just when Ahsoka thought it might be time to worry, she noticed a flash, the smallest glint. It came from deep inside what she now realized was a brown riverbed - a silver thread, half-buried in mud. She reached out. The thread sparkled at her touch, its energy familiar, like she had known it all along.

Gently, Ahsoka was pulled back to the present.

The rush of life - of the here and now, as Obi-wan would say - flowed back into her senses, the bright neon lights of Coruscant, the stench of pollution, the almost-overwhelming energy of millions of beings going about their daily business in the capital.

Ahsoka’s eyes widened in panic. She tried to get a sense of Qui-gon’s expression without actually looking at him, not daring to go near the man’s Force signature again. She had gone deeper than she had intended to, had walked over what she felt was an invisible line, had prodded into the man’s very essence and not even the excuse of protecting herself and others against the Sith could justify that.

A million excuses formed in her mind, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. Slowly, almost painfully, she turned her head to the man. Qui-gon hadn’t moved a muscle, gave no indication that he was bothered, that anyone had been snooping around his Force presence. He was still staring out the side of the speeder, hair still flowing, elbow perched on the side.

Ahsoka swallowed the large sigh of relief that begged to escape her chest. _Thank the Force._ She reasserted her grip on the steering wheel. _And next time maybe don’t go so far._ Anakin had always said she had a tendency to take things to extremes.

Like she hadn’t learned that from him.

Besides, despite the questionable nature of her actions, she had discovered worthwhile information.

Qui-gon Jinn was no Sith.

Which, should have been obvious, from the start. Anakin and Obi-wan wouldn’t have engaged in conversation, Obi-wan wouldn’t have ignored his Council meeting if they thought Qui-gon was some kind of dark Jedi. Ahsoka bit the inside of her cheek. _Should have thought of that earlier._

And just because Dooku had been his teacher, didn’t mean Qui-gon was corrupted. Yoda had been Dooku’s teacher, after all, and he certainly couldn’t have instructed the Count to be a _kriffing Sith Lord_. The image of an evil Yoda with a Padawan Dooku in tow alone was enough to make her want to burst out laughing.

She should know better. She _did_ know better, but…the war was playing tricks on everyone, and Ahsoka had seen too many good men fall, had watched betrayal unfold again and again to not be at least a little wary when something as extraordinary as a resurrected Jedi Master happened.

With the issue of Qui-gon’s allegiances settled in her mind, she turned to the one other question burning at her curiosity.

Why did Obi-wan punch Qui-gon?

Ahsoka had never seen Obi-wan lose control like that, not even when Anakin was at his most frustrating, not in the middle of battle, not even after the whole Rako Hardeen incident. Obi-wan was…well, he was Obi-wan. He released his emotions into the Force, was always there with a sage piece of advice, always kind, always adhering to the Code. He stayed up all night doing reports, was the Council’s darling, he even sat with younglings whenever he had time and opportunity at the Temple. He fought Ajass Ventress with a wink and a smile, goaded Grievous with alarming regularity, and time and again had been their rock during the Citadel mission.

And he was always - always in control.

 _Force,_ Ahsoka exhaled. _That must be tiring. If that’s what it means to be a Jedi Master, I don’t think I’ll ever become one. I couldn’t do that._

“Most of us can’t, young one,” Qui-gon smiled, turning his head in her direction.

 _Oh_. Fire rose up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Ahsoka cringed with the realization that Qui-gon was not as distracted as she had thought. _Oh no oh no oh no, he sensed my thoughts oh no he probably knows I tried to read his Force signature, kriff Tano, what were you thinking?_

“Not even Obi-wan, although Force knows he would be the one to try,” Qui-gon carried on, as if he couldn’t sense, couldn’t _kriffing_ well see the panic swirling around Ahsoka, his words and gestures breezy, despite the shadow of regret forming on his features.

Ahsoka tensed, waiting for the rebuke about how she shouldn’t overstep her boundaries like that, about how she dared to even entertain the thought that Qui-gon Jinn’s return was a product of dark and unspeakable acts. But Qui-gon said nothing, allowing the conversation to lapse as he occasionally stole glances at the sleeping occupant of the back seat.

Coruscant never met a silence it liked, and the din of the city rushed to fill the void. They were nearing the Capital district, back alleys and ramshackle business giving way to tall, gleaming structures, wide plazas adorned with fountains and vegetation, and, of course, the Senate building itself, rising in the distance as a monument to the Republic’s glory. A group of Sullustan tourists, all wearing yellow shirts, gathered near the entrance to the pedestrian mall, their leader speaking into an overgrown voice augmentator that looked as if it had been stolen from the nearby Antiquarian Museum. Ahsoka brought the speeder to a halt at the next corner, waiting for another light. A short, aquamarine-skinned Chagrian was standing on top a battered cargo box, pontificating to a small group of stragglers, who included a photographer and a very confused-looking Devaronian couple.

_“The Jedi should not be allowed to run free! They are a danger to the Republic, a radical organization - no, not an organization - let’s call them what they truly are - a cult! A cult that wants to impose military law…”_

Ahsoka slid down in her seat, willing the light to change. This wasn’t the first time she had heard such accusations, not by any means, but she certainly didn’t feel qualified to be the one to explain the state of Galactic politics and the Republic’s increasingly fraught relationship with the Jedi to someone who had been dead for ten years.

“I take it many things have changed in my absence,” Qui-gon commented as they passed the gathering.

Ahsoka grimaced. How much did Master Qui-gon know? About the war, about Dooku, oh Force, she did not want to be the one to have to relay that news.

“I can sense your anxiety, young one. Never fear, Obi-wan informed me of the worst of it while he was…” Master Qui-gon frowned, his gaze flitting to the sky. “In a mood to talk about such things. But let us speak of something less depressing.” Qui-gon turned his full attention on Ahsoka. “Tell me about your apprenticeship with Anakin. I admit, the last time I saw Ani he was a young boy - eager, kind and powerful in the Force. It is…it’s good to see him with such an accomplished and talented student.”

Heat rose again in Ahsoka’s face, this time from embarrassment. How could Master Qui-gon say that after only knowing her for barely a day? She’d done nothing aside from stare at the three of them, not offering any help when _Obi-wan had punched_ \- _kriff_ Obi-wan had actually - _Obi-wan had punched Qui-_ gon. And she then she had gone and all but accused Qui-gon of using dark rituals to achieve his resurrection, completely invading his privacy in the process.

_Accomplished and talented in not doing anything right, Master Qui-gon._

The light changed green. Ahsoka kept her eyes fixed on the road as she grasped at what to tell Master Qui-gon about her amazing, yet unconventional Master.

_Maybe that Skyguy always encouraged me to inspect Force signatures?_

Ahsoka let out a heavy breath.

“Skyguy is…well, he’s one of a kind. Powerful in the Force, passionate - he’s unlike any Jedi I’ve ever known.”

Qui-gon hummed, amusement playing at the edges of his Force presence.

“Yes, I imagine that might be the case given his unconventional initiation into the Jedi,” he commented, stroking his short beard in a gesture that was a mirror to Obi-wan’s habit of doing the same.

 _What did that mean?_ Sure, she knew that sometime after Qui-gon’s death - or, not-death, she supposed - Anakin had become Obi-wan’s student, but apparently there was more of a story there, as well. The return of this one man was inverting her entire world. Everything she thought she knew about Anakin, about Obi-wan - when did it all change?

Ahsoka squirmed in her seat. The Force pulled at her, tight and uncomfortable.

“So, uh, anyway,” she stammered, hoping to distract Qui-gon from her sudden unease, “Skyguy’s great. As a teacher, I mean. And a Jedi! First time I was assigned to him, I knew it.”

“And, you know, after that first mission - the Battle of Christophsis, well the _first_ battle of Christophsis - “

Qui-gon whirled in his seat, mouth wide in open horror.

“Your first assignment as a Padawan was in _an active war zone?_ ” he yelped.

Ahsoka shrugged. “All of ours were. I mean, in our class. I know it was different when Anakin was a student but with the war…”

Qui-gon muttered something in a language Ahsoka didn’t understand, slumping in his seat, running his hand over his mouth, again and again. “Change, I can understand,” he spoke more to himself than at Ahsoka, “but this..” he trailed off, once again lost in his thoughts.

They turned left, following the green signs for the Temple District. Now away from the core of the government, the street life became more scattered, a few groups here and there, children on top of their parents’ shoulders, trying to get a glimpse a real Jedi coming from the Temple.

“Did Obi-wan ever take another student?” Qui-gon asked suddenly.

“No, he didn’t.” Ahsoka flashed her identification cards at the guards near the barricades that had only recently been erected around the Temple. “I mean, the war started while Anakin was still a Padawan, technically. The Council knighted him and a bunch of others out of necessity, right after the Battle of Geonosis. And then Obi-wan was made a General and that was it, really.”

Qui-gon frowned, disappointed at that piece of news. “So does no one take apprentices anymore because of the war?”

“No, no - not at all!” Ahsoka exclaimed. “I guess - I mean, Master Fisto had one, and Master Billaba. And Master Vos.”

A hearty guffaw sounded from Qui-gon, as he slapped his thigh. He looked as if he had just choked on a piece of bantha meat. “Quinlan Vos with a Padawan! Now that is something I would have liked to have seen.” The chortling dissipated to a small chuckle, and Qui-gon relaxed.

It was the first time she had seen the man laugh, and his hard gaze melted into something soft and kind. Ahsoka felt like she was starting to get the true picture of the man who had been Obi-wan’s Master.

And despite her initial hesitance, she was pretty sure she liked Qui-gon Jinn.

And maybe, just maybe, trying to sneak around her questions about his return wasn’t the best way of approaching this. There were already too many secrets between him, and Obi-wan and Anakin. Ahsoka didn’t want to be a part of that, it felt wrong.

So maybe she should just…ask.

Ahsoka took a deep breath. “Master Qui-gon?”

“Yes, Ahsoka?”

The spires of the Jedi Temple rose in front of them, growing larger and larger as they approached the side dock entrance.

“How did you - I mean, you came back. And, you know, I was worried that somehow - “

Qui-gon chuckled. “Somehow I had used the most despicable of Dark Force powers to accomplish to come back from the dead? Perhaps due to my association with Dooku?”

If it were possible to disappear into the seat of the speeder, Ahsoka would have. In fact, death might have been kinder in this circumstance.

Qui-gon gave her the gentlest of smiles. “I have to admit it took me a moment to realize you were prodding into my Force signature.” His expression turned stern. “The Council generally frowns on such behavior.”

Ahsoka cast her eyes downward, actively wishing for the Force to swallow her whole. “I’m really, really sorry Master - “

“But,” Qui-gon interjected, “it was a prudent action, especially when confronted with a set of extraordinary circumstances in the middle of a galactic conflict with the Sith.”

“Master?” Ahsoka’s head whipped around in surprise.

“What,” Qui-gon adopted the tone of one of her tutors, “do you know about Count Dooku?”

The speeder lurched to the left as Ahsoka wrenched the steering wheel. In the backseat, Obi-wan moaned, mumbling something that sounded distinctly like “Anakin.”

Well, that was insulting.

Qui-gon sat, serene as ever, hands folded in his lap, half-smile plastered on his face as he waited for her response. The man was unflappable. It seemed very little could faze Qui-gon Jinn, including her own awful piloting. (Although in Ahsoka’s defense, this was a staggeringly bizarre array of questions).

“Well,” she began carefully, “he was your Master, right?”

Qui-gon’s eyebrows rose. “True enough,” he nodded. “Let me tell you a little bit about the man I knew. Yan Dooku was cold, calculating, and could be absolutely ruthless for a Jedi. As a Master he was unyielding and demanding, only accepting my best efforts.”

Ahsoka guided the speeder towards the furthest dock, not wanting to attract too much attention.

“But,” Qui-gon continued, “he had a human side, for all of his grumpiness, his elevated taste, his interest in classic dueling forms - he did care, in his own way. But Force only knew what the man was thinking, or feeling half the time. It could be like talking to a wall.”

Fingers flited over the control panel as Ahsoka parked the speeder, finishing inputting the landing sequence by muscle memory.

“Sounds a little bit like Obi-wan, to be honest,” she blurted.

Qui-gon chortled as his gaze traveled to the backseat. “It does, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “Tell me, Ahsoka, when something goes wrong on a mission, what do you do?”

Ahsoka shook her head. Why were all Jedi Masters like this, constantly asking abstruse questions in the middle of a semi-normal conversation?

“Well, I go over the reports with the clones and Skyguy, and then -“

Qui-gon held up a hand, and Ahsoka couldn’t help but feel she was back in her Initiate days, standing in front of the classroom, grasping for the right answer after she had spent the night sneaking into the Room of a Thousand Fountains instead of studying.

“What do you do, emotionally?” Qui-gon asked.

Deep lines of confusion formed on Ahsoka’s brow.

“Well, I meditate. Release my emotions into the Force, I guess. Talk with Skyguy. Or Barriss. Maybe do some sparring.” Ahsoka managed to not blurt out anything too incriminating, like the secret dance parties, card games with the clones, and the time she and Rex had tried to swap outfits.

In her defense, the battle that day had been really bad.

Qui-gon only nodded, placing two large arms under Obi-wan’s limp form, cradling the Jedi Master into his arms.

“Good,” he said over the bundle of wrinkled tunics that was Jedi Master and High Councillor Obi-wan Kenobi. Ahsoka didn’t miss the stench of alcohol and t’bac that wafted her way from one of the most vaunted members of the Council.

Qui-gon climbed out of the speeder, Jedi Master in tow, wrapping his long arms around Obi-wan’s torso, pulling him out in a tangle of limbs, hair, and tunics. The older Jedi looked at Obi-wan with consternation, his lips pursing.

“You know, I never did try dance parties in my youth. Perhaps I should now, given the circumstances,” he nodded at the unconscious man in his arms.

Ahsoka swore she didn’t let out a squeak. No, not at all.

“I am taking Obi-wan to his quarters,” Qui-gon announced, stopping short as his brows furrowed in puzzlement, then chagrin. “That is, the quarters Obi-wan has now. You wouldn’t want to accompany me and let me into his rooms, would you?”

“Not taking him to the Healers?” Ahsoka asked, smile playing on her face.

Qui-gon huffed. “Force, no. I don’t want him to hate me more than he does already.” His tone was light, but Ahsoka sensed pain in his words. It was enough to erase any of the levity she had been feeling a moment ago.

“I mean, sure, of course. But shouldn’t we let the Council know…“ Ahsoka made a series of confused gestures at Obi-wan and Qui-gon.

“The Council, I hope, will have already been informed of this matter. Either by Obi-wan himself, or Anakin, who I tasked with delivering the news. Although I’m uncertain how they will take it.”

“Why? Wouldn’t they be happy to see you alive?”

The mess of tunics in his arms shifted, incoherent sounds now muffled by the fact Obi-wan’s face was smushed into Qui-gon’s abdomen.

Qui-gon looked down at his unruly charge. “Ah, I should get him to bed before he wakes up and tries to punch me again. Or before someone finds me with an unconscious Jedi Master in my arms. Wouldn’t look good, especially if the Council feels I am a Sith plot, or worse.”

“I’m sorry about that, Master Qui-gon.” The apology came tumbling from Ahsoka’s mouth.

Qui-gon didn’t respond right away, instead gently placing Obi-wan on his feet, where he immediately fell into Qui-gon’s chest. Ahsoka ran forward, taking one of Obi-wan’s arms around her shoulders, letting Qui-gon take the other. The pair half-carried, half-dragged the bedraggled Jedi through the less-traveled corridors of the Jedi Temple.

“It wasn’t an unfounded fear, Ahsoka, and I am certain the Council will at least entertain the possibility,” Qui-gon stated as soon as they had entered a smaller hallway. “But my return is no Sith contrivance, at least not to my knowledge. I woke up in the Works, Ahsoka, no memory of how I got there or who I even was at first. All I knew was the Living Force, stretching beyond measure, inside of me until it felt like every molecule of my body had been tethered to the ends of the universe.”

Qui-gon stopped for a moment, regarding Obi-wan with a scowl while feeling at the unconscious man’s ribs. “I see he’s been keeping up his habit of substituting caf for actual meals,” the older Jedi sighed before moving forward.

“Anyway, after I thought I could last no longer, having my matter scattered across galaxies, there was a…there was something. A disturbance, but more than that, something that disrupted the very foundations of existence. In an instant, I was small, so small that I could fit in that very crevice between the two flagstones you see.” He gestured with his head towards the hallway floor.

Ahsoka looked at it and cringed. It was a pretty narrow space.

“Everything, all of time, space - my life, the Force, the universe itself. It all flashed at that moment, all crammed itself into that container in a concussion of agony and terrible realization. And then there was darkness, oblivion. And the next thing I knew, I was in the warehouse, lying on my back on cold steel.”

Ahsoka frowned. The Works had been abandoned for ages, not even the Coruscant authorities would go there. Hundreds of years ago, it had been the site of a terrible accident, some kind of chemical explosion that had killed over three hundred thousand beings, and not all of them instantly, either. Not too long after, all the industries in the area packed up and fled, most likely so they wouldn’t be indicted in galactic court for criminal negligence. No one ever went back there after the incident, no one rebuilt, or even made any kind of memorial to honor the dead. All the factories, the warehouses remained abandoned, even up to the present day. It was said you could hear the screams of the dying in the walls, that their blood seeped from the pipes, poisonous, their ghosts intent on revenge on whoever entered that space. It became known as the Dacho District, the Dead Sector.

_And Qui-gon woke up there._

“Ahsoka, is this it?”

A familiar grey door blocked her path. Ahsoka started, not realizing she had led them to Obi-wan’s quarters without even thinking.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

She input the access codes and the door swung open with a series of beeps, revealing the familiar if spartan quarters of Obi-wan Kenobi.

Qui-gon led them into the bedroom, glancing around the room as he did. Every so often he would spot something, and raise his eyebrows. Or sigh. Or frown.

“We’ll just place him on the bed, like this,” Qui-gon said, arranging Obi-wan so he laid on his left side, top leg bent at the knee. Ahsoka knew it as the recovery position, and had placed more than a few clones (and Jedi) the same way. It was a safe bet in case something were to block Obi-wan’s airways.

Like vomit.

“Thank you, Ahsoka,” Qui-gon whispered, taking a moment to brush Obi-wan’s hair away from his face before turning to Ahsoka. “And now if you don’t mind, I am going to try and get five minutes’ rest before the Council comes beating down the door with lightsabers drawn.”

That didn’t sound good. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, Master Qui-gon?” If the Council had made the same assumptions Ahsoka had…well, it was unlikely to end well for Qui-gon.

That, at least, elicited a small smile from the man. “No. It will be fine. As the Force wills it. Go find Anakin. I’m certain the Council will be calling on you two in short order.”

Ahsoka nodded. Yeah, she should find Skyguy, maybe even bring him back here in case the Council did something ridiculous. They wouldn’t listen to her, but maybe they would listen to Anakin.

She hoped.

Ahsoka gave one last glance over to the prone form of Obi-wan.

“Take care of him.”

“Oh, I will. If that stubborn-headed gundark of a man will let me, at least.”

Ahsoka bit back a laugh. She waved one last time at the older Jedi Master and walked away, letting the door shut behind her. Once Ahsoka was alone she closed her eyes, letting out the breath, the tension, the anxiety she had been holding for the past twenty minutes.

Find Anakin. Make sure the Council doesn’t do anything rash.

Then meditate.

And later on?

Definitely a very large, very sugary dessert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I decide on a mood for this whole story?
> 
> NO.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing has a life of its own. The growing gelatinous cube of the Qui-gon!Lives AU, apparently. 
> 
> Damnit Qui-gon, keep your damn mouth shut!

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Four minutes. Qui-gon glanced at the holoclock as he rushed to the living area, intent on greeting what he assumed was the Jedi Council before they took the opportunity to break down Obi-wan's door. 

It had taken them all of  _four minutes_ to come chasing after him. 

Qui-gon wrung his hands together. His past conflicts with the Council had often landed him in minor trouble, much to Obi-wan's consternation, and certainly had barred him from consideration for a seat on the vaunted Jedi body. Qui-gon had never been overly concerned with the Council's opinion, one way or another, and for the most part, he and the Jedi governors enjoyed a cordial, if sometimes strained relationship. He was a known quantity, a  _good_ Jedi - if an occasional irritant for his more free-wheeling ways. This situation, however...

This was something else entirely. This could be dangerous. The Council was well within their rights to deal with a Sith threat in any manner they felt acceptable, and given they were at the height of what Qui-gon had come to realize was a highly unpleasant intergalactic conflict featuring the defection of his own Master...well, he was going to have to be careful. The last thing he needed was to be taken away as a Sith impostor, or worse, for Obi-wan, Ahsoka, or Anakin to be implicated in any wrongdoing. 

No, that would do nothing to repair the fracture - the canyon - that had grown between him and his former Padawan. 

Qui-gon closed his eyes, reaching out to the Force. He felt for the familiar, flowing stream lying just underneath his consciousness. It buoyed him, pushing him against its violet, sandy shores, pulling him towards a crystalline moon in the distance. Qui-gon took a deep breath, holding oxygen,  _life_ in his lungs. He was  _alive_ , this was real, no trick of the Force, no illusion. This was an opportunity - fate had brought him back for a reason. Qui-gon stared into the rippling waves, admiring their beauty, their complexity. After a moment's hesitation, he let go, allowing himself to fall, to be pulled away by the currents.

_Trust in the Living Force, all will be as it wills._

_ *Knock. Knock. Knock.* _

The front door  _whooshed_ open with a wave of Qui-gon's hand, revealing an assemblage of brown robes and stern faces gathered in the narrow corridor. Qui-gon eyed the silver cylinders perched on utility belts, barely glinting in the dim hallway with a fair degree of trepidation. It occurred to him that he was weaponless, and his hand itched to hold his own familiar lightsaber, which was likely stored away in the Archives.

"Master Qui-gon. A surprise, this is.”

Yoda stood at the head of what Qui-gon could only guess were collected members of the Jedi Council. It honestly wasn’t too much of an assumption to make, considering most of the faces had remained unchanged since his last encounter with them. Qui-gon’s gut twisted in discomfort. That had been right before he and Obi-wan had left for Naboo. Where he had died. Apparently at the hands of the red-and-black Zabrack who was not only still alive, but had also returned from the dead, just as he had.

What a strange commonality to have with a Sith. Although Qui-gon supposed he ought to get used to such things, considering where his former Master’s loyalties lay now. He, it seemed, perhaps more than anyone in the Temple, had enough common ground with the Sith to well... to pique the interest of the Council. Which was now about to barge through his front door.

Obi-wan’s front door, that was.

Qui-gon winced, thankful that he had had the foresight to at least close the bedroom door. Hopefully, that would muffle the worst of the confrontation. Not that he expected Mace Windu or Ki-Adi Mundi or… Qui-gon's eyes stopped on a Tholothian woman, widening in recognition as he attempted to place a name with a long-forgotten face. 

_ Adi Gallia? _  But a second glance told him he wrong. _No, S_ _tass _Al_ lie. Of course. A worthy choice._

Qui-gon wondered what had become of Adi. He could certainly use her presence in this situation.  _She_ would be able to corroborate his claim, affirm his identity, his intentions.

But the Force, it seemed, had other plans.

_You are no Sith contrivance, Qui-gon Jinn._ _Keep that truth in your heart, and the will of the Force will follow. Trust in that above all else._

Qui-gon opened his hands in the universal gesture of peace, offering a gentle, enigmatic smile at the assemblage of stoic, stony faces clustered near the entryway. (He was careful to keep the emergency closing mechanism within easy reach. The Force was a powerful ally, but as Master Dooku once told him, 'Trust in the Force, but all other pay in credits.') 

“Hello, Master Yoda. It _is_ good to see you again. And let me assure you, no one is as surprised as me to be here right now.”

Yoda remained as implacable as ever, regarding Qui-gon with a penetrating stare, clawed hands sitting atop the knob of his ever-present gimmer stick. He had aged, what little hair Qui-gon remembered him with having thinned out to a scant few threads of white against his pale green skin. Yodae tapped his gimmer stick on the ground once, saying nothing. What had once been wrinkles now dug veritable crevasses into his features as the old Jedi master exchanged a wary glance with another familiar face. Mace Windu cleared his throat and nodded. Time, it seemed, had done nothing to the severe Jedi Master, except perhaps make his accusatory stare  _more_ threatening. It did not escape Qui-gon’s attention that while Mace’s hands were nowhere near his lightsaber, the four Jedi behind him made no attempt to conceal the movement of their hands, which wrapped around thick,` silver hilts. 

Qui-gon twisted his fingers together. Aggressive negotiations, then. 

Mace frowned. “You’ll have to excuse us for the sudden intrusion, Master Jinn, but we were all rather shocked to receive Knight Skywalker’s…” The Korun Master’s face flitted between resignation and annoyance. Qui-gon was quietly impressed. It had taken Anakin far less time to elicit _that_ reaction from Mace Windu than it had for him. 

“…frenetic transmission,” Mace continued, making an offhand gesture that communicated this was not behavior becoming of a Jedi Knight.

“A Jedi Master, killed ten years ago, now returned from the dead. Tell me, Master Jinn, how exactly were you resurrected?” Qui-gon could feel Mace poking at his Force signature, much in the same manner Ahsoka had earlier. But while Ahsoka’s probing had been curious and gentle, laced with a touch of embarrassment, Mace made no such accommodations. His durasteel signature bored into Qui-gon with little room for mercy, all while Mace stared him down with the intensity of Tatooine’s twin suns at the height of the solstice. 

Qui-gon resisted the urge to quail under the unrelenting pressure. Np, ten years hadn’t softened Mace Windu one bit.

“I’m afraid it’s really not much of a story, Master Windu, at least from my point of view,” Qui-gon began affably, ignoring the acid pooling in his gut. “A day ago I woke in a warehouse in the Works.” A few eyebrows rose at the mention of the abandoned sector. “I was disoriented, having little memory of anything that had come before. Once I regained some semblance of control over my body, I reached for the Force, out of sheer instinct.” He paused, trying to put into words the strange sensations he had felt at first, without retelling the more colorful version he had given Ahsoka. 

“I will admit, Masters, my abilities were, and remain, limited, but I could touch barest sense of familiarity, of other Jedi.” Qui-gon didn’t add that even a blind gundark would have been able to feel the natural blaze of Anakin Skywalker’s Force presence through neuronium walls, so powerful was the boy. Somehow he didn’t think that was what the Council needed to hear right now, and Qui-gon didn't want to draw unwarranted attention to anyone else in this whole debacle. And...perhaps he didn’t want to address the other part of the realization - the bubbling guilt that he could not sense his own Padawan right away, that Obi-wan’s signature hadn’t called to him at all until he had come face-to-face with the man he had trained. 

And despite the minor, nearly invisible thread that had illuminated when Obi-wan laid eyes on his former teacher, it had been buried - quickly and without remorse - seconds before Obi-wan’s fist had landed in Qui-gon’s face.

“Something familiar, you say?” croaked Master Yoda, whose question, as usual, betrayed none of his actual meaning.

“Just…” Qui-gon bit his lip, trying to ignore how the cluster of Jedi seemed to be inching forward with his every utterance. “Shadows. Hints of familiar people. Likely those I had encountered before my apparent demise,” he hedged, not wishing to divulge much more until he knew the true intentions of the Council

Pairs of eyes sought him, then each other. The Force murmured with the silent communication between the Jedi Masters, like a series of shallow communicator waves. A few heads bobbed up and down, others shook, and Ad - Stass Allie raised her eyebrows at Master Windu, and then Qui-gon in succession. Mace stared at her and then grunted, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest, turning his attention back to Qui-gon.

“Those…familiar shades,” Mace said, “led you to Master Kenobi. A Jedi High Councillor who shields himself so tightly we who have been with him the past ten years can barely discern him unless he so chooses.” Doubt colored Mace’s words. “You speak of Knight Skywalker, who, while a beacon in the Force, I will admit, has at least learned to shield much of his presence due to the war, and he _has_ changed since your brief encounter with him at the age of eight.” 

“Which leaves us with Padawan Tano, who was barely an Initiate in the Temple at the time of your death,” Mace said, his frown deepening as he took a menacing step forward, now inches from Qui-gon’s chest.

“I find this explanation far-fetched.”

Qui-gon swallowed over the rapidly-growing lump in his throat. Being arrested as a Sith impostor was _not_ the way he wanted to end this day. 

“Ah, well,” Qui-gon flashed a tight smile. “Perhaps it was the general presence of Jedi that drew me forward,” he continued, shifting back and forth on the balls of feet. “In any case, Masters, I encountered Obi-wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka soon after exiting the warehouse.”

Mace’s frown grew deeper at that statement, an accomplishment given the severity of his expression already. 

Qui-gon tightened the grip on his own fingers, willing himself to keep his own tongue in check.

_No wonder Mace and I never got along._

But the stray thought must have traveled through the Force, or Qui-gon's expression wasn't as schooled as he had hoped as Mace's eyes widened a fraction, his spine stiffening. Qui-gon responded in kind, unfurling his chest until he stood erect. Whatever weakness of his body, he still held the minute advantage of height over the Korun Jedi Master, and he intended to make use of it. But Qui-gon caught the slight head shake of Master Yoda out of the corner of his eye, and Mace sighed in response, relaxing his posture incrementally.

“You encountered them, you say," Mace placed a hand on his lightsaber hip. "A curious coincidence when Master Kenobi has neglected a Council meeting and remains unaccounted for. When Padawan Tano checked out a speeder at 1900, when she was supposed to be giving a report on a sweep of the underlevels. Not to mention Knight Skywalker's distracted charge into the Temple with some rambling message about your return.”

The Force whispered, frenetic, wisps of accusation, hope, suspicion flurrying around them, a miniature vortex. Qui-gon had been prepared for something like this, at least for the intertwined miasma of suspicion and hope. What he had not anticipated, what nothing could have prepared him for, was the overriding emotion emanating from the Jedi Council, one which he thought would never be the main engine, the catalyst for the Council’s decisions.

Because above all else, sitting atop the strata of conflicting opinions and emotions, above, even the epidural layer of Jedi stoicism, of the Code, was a mountain, a veritable volcano of _fear_.

And this, perhaps more than anything else, drove an icy dagger into Qui-gon’s still-beating heart. 

Mace Windu’s voice phased into his consciousness like a distant communicator station.

“You’ll have to excuse me if this doesn’t all sound highly suspicious.”

Qui-gon almost laughed. Force knew what kept him from it, perhaps it was the desperate realization that the Jedi were no longer driven by compassion, by the Force, but by _fear for their own continued existence._

“I would be disappointed if you weren’t suspicious, Master Windu,” Qui-gon plastered a smile on his face, jagged edges creeping into his voice. “And, I’m glad to know you haven’t changed one whit in ten years.”

Mace let out a hiss, unsheathing his lightsaber, the hilt now mere inches away from Qui-gon’s chest, his once-muted Force signature now overbearing. 

“No more games.” Each word was a strike, every consonant imploring him to _confess now._ “What have you done with Kenobi?” Mace demanded.

Qui-gon raised his hands in the air, jerking his head towards the door. “He’s resting.”

The hilt of Mace’s weapon drifted closer to Qui-gon'sracing heart, trying to beat through his battered tunics.

“What did you do to him?”

Now wasn’t that a question. Qui-gon sorely wished he knew the answer, given Obi-wan’s extreme reaction to his return. Qui-gon’s cheek spasmed, the memory of Obi-wan’s attack now inedible in his psyche, almost as much as his outburst-cum-confession of a few hours ago. But whatever Obi-wan’s grievances against him, that was between him and his former Padawan, not him and the Council. 

“I…” Qui-gon’s voice shook. _Blast it!_ He had come under scrutiny from the Council, from Mace before, but never as an enemy, never would he believe he would see that day when…not even the word of a Jedi was enough, despite his extraordinary circumstances. Qui-gon blew out the remaining air from his lungs. The Force rushed to greet him in response, its cooling eddies fanning the fires of his fear, of his anxiety. 

_Here and now, Jinn. Remain in the here and_ now. 

Qui-gon clenched his jaw.

“Nothing. Obi-wan fell ill. I asked for Ahsoka’s help in bringing him back to the Temple and - ”

The cold metal of a lightsaber hilt against his ribs cut off any further protest. Qui-gon gasped, frozen in place. He stared at Mace in utter disbelief. 

_They couldn’t, they wouldn’t…not without proof, not when -_

“It’s true, Master Windu!” 

“Wait!”

A pair of frantic voices boomed from the end of the corridor, the clapping of boots against duracrete creating the rather incongruent illusion of thunderous applause. Two beings followed soon thereafter, panting and wide-eyed, a messy flurry of hair, tunics, and beads. Anakin Skywalker placed himself directly between Qui-gon and Mace Windu, glaring at the Korun Jedi Master as if the power of his eyes alone would incinerate the other man on the spot. Ahsoka came to stand at Qui-gon’s side, looking no less pleased, but at least coherent enough to plead at the assemblage of shocked Jedi Masters.

“It’s true! It’s Master Qui-gon!” Ahsoka repeated, a little too loud and still short of breath. She sent a brief question through the Force at Qui-gon: _Are you okay?_ before crossing her arms, setting her face in an exact imitation of Anakin's fiery expression.

Mace Windu gaped at her, then Anakin, his eyebrows climbing nearly to the crown of his shining head. 

_“True?”_ Qui-gon had never heard Mace Windu’s voice jump in pitch to that degree. “Padawan Tano, how would you have known this man before today? Time travel is not among our talents.” 

Mace furrowed his brows, returning Anakin's stare with one no less potent. "Neither of you should be here. This is Council business, _dangerous_ Council business."

"Jinn, or whoever you are," Mace cocked his head to get a full glimpse of the long-haired Jedi, extendin his arm in Qui-gon's direction, saber hilt still in hand. "You are coming with us. If this is some plot of Dooku’s, we  _will_ find out. Although even I didn’t think he could stoop any lower, to any more vile perversions of the Force,” he spat.

Ahsoka waved her arms chaotically. “No, but I - “

“That is _enough_ , Padawan Tano.”

“No, wait!” shouted Anakin over the growing din.  “This…this isn’t some - this _is_ Master Qui-gon,” Anakin jabbed his finger in Qui-gon's direction. “The same man who rescued me from Tatooine. I’d remember his signature anywhere.”

Ki-Adi Mundi shook his head, speaking in low tones to Kit Fisto. 

“A contrivance, some dark work.”

“Suppose we should consult in the Archives - “

“No, you _know_ who last sought those resources. And what became of him - “

_TAP. TAP. TAP._

Yoda’s gimmer stick struck the floor in a series of deafening raps, stunning the space into silence.

“Hypothesis,” the diminutive Jedi Master croaked. “Guesses. Signs of the dark side, felt you have?” Yoda brought his eyes to each of them in turn, and one by one, every Master lowered their heads with an almost imperceptible shake. All of them ,except Mace Windu, whose expression had settled back into its usual passive stoicism. “Caution, yes. Prudence, yes. War, there is. Great calamity, betrayal, already have we faced.” Yoda placed his small claws on the stick, closing his eyes, lifting his head almost as if to smell for something in the air.

“Hmm. Accusation without evidence. Fear, I do, what the war has done to us. And still, my friend,” Yoda reached around Anakin, taking the edge of Qui-gon’s hand in his own. “Alive, you are. Feel, to be Master Qui-gon, yes.” Yoda peered at Qui-gon as if he were a lab specimen, and the Force hummed, glowing and verdant. The comforting blanket vanished as Yoda dropped his hand abruptly, the only evidence of Yoda's Force presence Qui-gon’s tingling skin where the elder Jedi Master had held it. Yoda turned to face the collected Jedi.  “But the Force. A disturbance this large. Hmm. For good or ill, I cannot say.”

Qui-gon pursed his lips. He supposed it could have been a worse indictment, considering. 

“Aren’t you at least happy he’s alive, Masters?” Anakin’s voice was rough with disbelief, with yearning, and…and something Qui-gon couldn’t quite put his finger on. But there was a shade of desperation to the words, some subtext of wonder that the dead _could indeed return_ that caused Qui-gon to pause. Had Anakin had lost someone dear to him sometime in the past ten years?

“That, Skywalker, depends on the mechanism for his resurrection,” Mace Windu responded, turning his attention back to Qui-gon.

“Was it Dooku?”

Qui-gon’s jaw dropped.

“ _Dooku?_ ” he cried.

Truth be told, Qui-gon hadn’t quite sorted his feelings about his former Master’s turn. He wasn’t even wholly surprised. Disappointed, perhaps. And...possibly a touch disconcerted. After all, he _had_ been trained by the man, had shared similar ideas concerning the corruption of the Republic, and despite what he and Ahsoka had discussed on the ride over, the shadow of his lineage, of Xanatos's fall, often preyed on his mind. But as much as Qui-gon would sometimes skate the line of grey morality (grey, at least, in terms of the strict view of the Jedi), he always felt he was acting in the best interests of the Force, for the greater good. Which occasionally necessitated acts that were less…Jedi-like than one such as Mace Windu would approve of. And that was something he had learned from -

Qui-gon bit back the large sigh that threatened to erupt from what felt like his very organs. 

Of course, he had learned all that from Dooku. And passed it on to Xanatos. And Obi-wan. 

_Damn. If I see the connection, the Council certainly will, as well._

Qui-gon licked his lips. “I have - _had_ not spoken with Master Dooku in quite some time before my death. First death. Excuse me, Masters, I am finding the correct terms to be rather complicated.” Qui-gon didn’t add that he knew about his Master’s turn, although from the look in Yoda’s eyes, he must have figured out that someone had spilled the truth.

_Yes, my very drunk and very angry Padawan._

“And what of any other Sith? The red and black Zabrack, from Naboo? What do you remember of that, if anything?” Master Mundi pressed. 

Remember? Of course, he remembered. Well, to a point, at least. He recalled fighting the creature on Tatooine, ordering little Ani to duck, desperation clinging to his words. The way his heart had leapt into this throat as he feared the child would be taken, or worse, when that black whirlwind of hatred had descended on the two of them in the desert. It had only been thanks to Obi-wan’s quick piloting that both he and Anakin had escaped unscathed from the encounter. 

“I most certainly remember him, Masters.” Qui-gon ran a hand over the top of his head, forming a fist as be brought it down into his open palm with a _smack_. “And want nothing to do with him. He was a Sith, which, if you may recall, I told you about. Which you ignored, to my…well, my demise at the time.” 

Master Mundi grimaced, not pleased to hear of the Council's culpability. 

“And he was not the one who brought you back?"

“ _Him?_ ” Qui-gon yelped, jerking his head in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. This went beyond practical skepticism, this was veering into the…into the _bizarrre._ Had the Jedi developed such a paranoia about Sith that they could entertain such ridiculous notions?

Master Rancisis seemed undeterred by the reaction, the tip of his long tail flitting back and forth in annoyance. “Perhaps Maul seeks a further vengeance, perhaps he has joined forces with Dooku. If, a dark plot you are, Master Jinn, it would be best to reveal yourself now. Master Yoda says your signature does not betray any traces of the dark side, but we cannot be too careful - “

_“Why in the galaxy would I be working with either of them?”_ Qui-gon exclaimed, now truly beyond the bounds of his patience. “Why would I work with my former Master, who has apparently turned Sith? Why would I join forces with this Maul, this creature that not only killed me, but apparently many more in some misplaced quest for revenge? Have you all forgotten about the recent murder of a certain Mandalorian noble?“

Qui-gon heaved, flinging an arm behind him, catching himself on the edge of the door. Long hair fell around his face, matted and sweaty, obscuring his features, drawing a curtain around his growing despair. 

_ Why would the Force return me to face this? Is this to be my penitence?  _

Warmth blossomed on Qui-gon's upper arm. He belatedly realized it was a hand. Anakin's, in fact. Qui-gon sent his gratitude through the Force, running his own free hand through his hair, pushing it back around his ears. 

Anakin stared at him, blinking. “What are you talking about, Master Qui-gon?” he stuttered. Qui-gon looked up. All eyes - the Council’s, Anakin’s, and Ahsoka’s - were on him. The terrible weight that had been forming in his stomach all day grew leaden.

Qui-gon licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry as the Tatooine desert. 

“What do you mean?” The words were viscid, sticking to his tongue, the roof of his mouth. Trepidation grew to outright dread. _What was going on here?_ The Jedi Council he knew, yes, could be stubborn, and slow to act. But never would they stand back and allow a legitimate government to fall into chaos at the hands of a rogue _Sith._ Especially one as pivotal as Mandalore. 

Never had the Council just… _ignored_ murder of this magnitude.

“About Maul. He killed you, yes, this is true.” Yoda leaned into his gimmer stick, exchanging cryptic glances with Ki-Adi Mundi. 

Mace picked up where Yoda left off. “We know Maul razed a sector on Raydonia a few months ago. It was…an unfortunate massacre.”

“And what was done about this?” Qui-gon demanded.

“Wait, what massacre on Raydonia?” Anakin interjected, both he and Ahsoka spinning to face Mace Windu.

“That - “ Mace paused, for once seeming uncertain of his words. “That is confidential information, Skywalker. But suffice it to say that there _was_ a massacre, and an operative was sent to deal with it. Maul and his associate fled in the aftermath of the confrontation.”

“This operative couldn’t finish Maul?” Qui-gon asked.

Mace pursed his lips. “The situation was…complicated.”

“And so then Maul resurfaced on Mandalore,” Anakin finished, his voice trailing, his own gaze finding Ahsoka's in silent conversation. 

Qui-gon searched the faces of the Jedi Council. There was something more going on here, something he, and Anakin, and Ahoksa - had missed out on.

“That is…” Ki-Adi sighed. “Master Yoda?”

Yoda shook his head, looking more tired than ever. “Many enemies, Mandalore had. The Death Watch, sought, they did, to usurp the rule of the Duchess Satine Kryze. A coup, there was. Maul’s involvement, scant information, we have. But the Duchess,” Yoda glanced at Qui-gon, his voice growing soft. “Yes. Killed, she was, in the violence.”

Anakin and Ahsoka’s jaws dropped, like puppets cut loose from their strings. Anakin frowned, grumbling something about “Obi-wan never said anything.” Ahsoka quickly elbowed him in the ribs, whispering, “ _not the time, Skyguy._ ” 

Qui-gon clenched his fists. Was this the great compassion of the Jedi Order on display? Attachment was forbidden, yes, and generally for good reason. But even so…memories of Tahl’s death rose, unbidden. Qui-gon slammed the lid closed on that mental box.

Revenge was not the Jedi way. 

But even putting aside Obi-wan’s complicated relationship with the Duchess, a world had been in need, its legitimate government under attack.

“Was it not _known_ to the Council,” Qui-gon barely kept the anger out of his voice, “that Maul killed the Duchess Satine? That a Sith apparently usurped a legitimate government? That this was done in front of Obi-wan’s own eyes?" 

The collective room gaped in his direction. 

“No, it _wasn’t_ known,” a voice growled from behind Qui-gon. 

Any remaining air was sucked out of the room with the entrance of this new, but  _too_ familiar presence.

Qui-gon squeezed his eyes shut. 

_Kriff._

Slowly, reluctantly, he craned his neck around, his face turning until his eyes had no choice but to follow. Leaning against the now-open door to the bedroom was Obi-wan, his face as pale as his undertunics, knuckles translucent as he clutched the edge of the door frame, sweaty fingers leaving a messy, chaotic signature on the grey, duracrete surface. 

Blue-grey eyes bored into his.

“Obi-wan, we have to talk,” Mace announced. Qui-gon knew that tone. It meant nothing good, and protective instinct took over his better sense.

Qui-gon stepped forward. “He can talk tomorrow when he’s - “

“We will talk _now_ ,” Obi-wan interrupted, his voice cold, unforgiving steel. His eyes were still fixed on Qui-gon, face blank. Obi-wan raised a single eyebrow. “That is, the _Council_ and I will talk now,” he enunciated.

There was no outward expression of his former student’s displeasure, his absolute ire, but Qui-gon _knew_ Obi-wan, could practically see the signs of the younger man _seething_ just below the surface. 

Of course, Qui-gon would know. After all, his own Master had expressed his severe anger in _exactly the same manner._

And this wasn’t the time for this conversation. Not with a large portion of the Jedi Council present, not with both Anakin and Ahsoka standing nearby, _gobsmacked,_ the waves of Anakin’s shock nearly bowling him over, and no, Qui-gon would not complicate this situation by asking -

“Just five minutes, Obi-wan.” The words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them. 

His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t had water in weeks, years, even. 

_Ten years, Jinn. Ten years. He isn't the same man.You're only making this worse._

Qui-gon forced himself to meet Obi-wan’s dispassionate gaze. 

“Please.”

Nothing. Not a flicker of understanding, of anger, of  _anything_ , crossed the younger man's face. He was a mask, made of stone.

It was said that if one fell into the void of space, time would stand still. That movement, location, would cease to have meaning. 

It was not known to Republic scientists that Obi-wan Kenobi’s full wrath could engender the exact same conditions. 

“Five minutes,” Obi-wan said, no inflection in his words. He was already partway to the bedroom when he stopped short. "Although," Obi-wan turned back towards the collection of stunned Jedi, the barest hint of a vicious smile on his face. “If Master Jinn emerges with a broken nose, I renounce all responsibility.” 

 

* * *

 

Qui-gon waved a hand. The pneumatic door _whiffed_ closed, sealing him inside the austere bedroom with his former Padawan. Stark, beige walls met him on all sides, just the barest hints of shadow marring the monotony where a picture had once hung over the bed, or where a shelf had sat in the corner, full of plants and other ephemera from their journeys.

Purged. The room had been purged of all memory, of all  _meaning._

Who _was_ Obi-wan now? There was almost no hint at the man’s interests (none of the woodcarvings he had attempted as a teen), no stack of holobooks (they had been mostly non-fiction, but Obi-wan had also shown a keen interest in Old Republic poetry, of all things), not even a bowl of snacks, nothing by which he could call this place a _home._ Just a sorry, chipped teacup on a cracked wooden table.

“There’s not much time for reading or woodcarving when one is fighting a war,” Obi-wan frowned, tucking his arms around his waist, his icy countenance giving way to something more fatigued, more drained. “Or, the Sith you thought to be dead.”

“And I see there isn’t much time to eat, either,” Qui-gon countered, displeased at the way shadow and light threw Obi-wan’s gaunt features into stark relief. “But I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Obi-wan. You seem to know my thoughts without me voicing them, but you remain a mystery to me.” Qui-gon picked up the teacup. Spores of mold danced and quivered on the surface of the liquid, green and white undulating with each ripple of the dark liquid.

“What do you want Qui-gon?” The question was tired, resigned even. Qui-gon tore his attention away from the object in his hands. Obi-wan was leaning against the wall, white undertunic rumpled, splotched grey with sweat. The younger man hung his head, arms still wrapped tight against his midsection. Qui-gon was brought back to an incident many years ago, when he and Obi-wan had been called to Gœrthuk for a diplomatic mission - the brokering of a trade deal between the mountain-dwelling populace and the more nomadic beings of the pod cities. 

The mission itself had been, for once, smooth, a complete success. And no success on Gœrthuk could be celebrated without copious amounts of _îch-ton_ , a spicy, fermented beverage whose danger lied in the fact that it looked, and tasted just like a popular, non-alcoholic, Pantoran juice. 

Obi-wan had imbibed half a carafe before passing out at the table, face-first in his pudding, to the general cheers and applause of the gathered Gœrthuk nobility.

The next morning had been unfortunate, an endless cycle of trips to the ‘fresher interspersed with writhing in bed, swearing off alcohol, Gœrthuk, and trade missions altogether for the rest of his existence. A learning experience for Obi-wan, to be certain, although Qui-gon’s heart had gone out for the boy, so sick had he been.

Qui-gon regarded the sickly man in front of him.  _This_ was self-inflicted. And yet, Qui-gon could feel the urge to grab a glass of water and some sugar tablets, to pull Obi-wan to the bed and order him to lie there until he felt better. Just looking him - the red, unfocused eyes, the deep swallows of discomfort, the way he kept lurching to the side -

But, no. Qui-gon was many things, but he wasn’t _stupid_. And this time, he would keep his mouth shut. 

At least on that particular matter. 

“What am I _supposed_ to say, Obi-wan?” And despite himself, a flicker of annoyance found its way into Qui-gon’s question. It wasn't  _his_ fault Obi-wan failed to tell the Council about Satine and Maul. It wasn't  _his_ fault Obi-wan decided to drink himself into a stupor. It wasn't _his_ fault that he was faced with a stranger in the skin of one once so close to him. 

It wasn't _his_  fault he _died_ and woke up in a terrible, changed universe.

_To wallow in sentiment is not only unbecoming, it is dangerous, Qui-gon._ Qui-gon almost snorted. Some advice coming from the man who held his Serenno ancestry in higher regard than his Jedi training. 

“What are you _supposed_ \- “ A strangled, gurgling laugh forced its way up Obi-wan’s throat as he raised his head. “Right, of course,” the younger man muttered. “Now it’s _my_ fault.” 

Obi-wan cocked an eyebrow in his direction, his eyes wide and glassy. 

“Come now, Master Jinn. You are the one who requested this little tête-à-tête and the holoclock stops for no one.” And despite the awful tremor in Obi-wan's voice, an absolutely wicked smile slashed its way across his face. Qui-gon's stomach churned.  _That_ was something he had never seen before - an expression so caustic, so _mocking._  “Well," Obi-wan coughed, "it doesn't stop for anyone but you, I suppose.”

The flicker that had been wavering inside Qui-gon grew to an outright flame. _Damnit, Obi-wan!_ He wanted to help, to make this right, but his former Padawan was being positively obdurate, bitter to the point where Qui-gon was beginning to fear for his balance in the Force, or would _if he could sense anything_ from the man who had shielded himself to such a degree he doubted an entire army of Jedi could blast through his duracrete walls. 

“Of course,” Obi-wan groaned, attempting to straighten his posture, failing with a grimace as he slid down the wall. “Of course, it would be you to break all laws of physics, to steamroll past everything we know about the Force and how it works.” Obi-wan fixed Qui-gon with a penetrating, accusatory stare. “And I wonder who you learned _that_ from?”

Qui-gon opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. It wasn't  _his_ fault that Master Dooku had turned - turned Sith. How was _he_ supposed to know that his own death would be the final catalyst for his fall, to push his already-grey teacher into the void?

Obi-wan chuckled, apparently pleased the hit had landed as he had intended. “But enough of that. The Council is waiting to skin me alive, and I imagine they are a bit short of patience at the moment. So I will ask you again what you want from me, Jinn. And please, do make it quick. I only have so much time to empty the paltry remains of my stomach in the 'fresher before being strung up the Jedi Council.” 

It pained Qui-gon to be addressed like this by his former student, by the boy, now the man, he had come to cherish. The boy who had proven again and again to him that he more than deserved his place by Qui-gon’s side, the boy whose kindness, whose urge to be worthy had nearly been his undoing. Who had now, it seemed, learned to bury those inclinations under a wall of coldness, of sarcasm and reserve he could barely believe belonged to the Obi-wan he once knew.

Well, almost. The sarcasm, he could believe, now thinking back on the number of times he had chided his Padawan’s sharp tongue. Age seemed to have only exacerbated _that_ tendency.

_Where do I even start?_ Beyond the obvious issue of not even being able to read his Padawan, there lay the fact that what he _could_ sense of Obi-wan was, well - Qui-gon was out of his depth. The absolute anger he had shown not more than two minutes was absent, replaced by a tired resignation that hinted at trials even more arduous than this. What had happened to Obi-wan after his death? How had he convinced the Council to take Anakin? And this war - Dooku, Maul, and now the Jedi as Generals? Qui-gon had wanted this conversation, had pleaded for it, but now faced with Obi-wan - a sober, if somewhat bedraggled Obi-wan - he had no idea what to say. 

_I'm sorry._  


For what, Qui-gon wasn't certain. Certainly for exposing a hurtful secret to the Council (although, why that had been a secret to begin with was a whole other matter). For causing Obi-wan pain. For  _dying._ For...the sheer  _depth_ of Obi-wan's power in the Force. Not that Qui-gon bemoaned any of his student's abilities. In fact, Qui-gon was in awe of what he could sense, and knew that this was only what he could see with his limited abilities. Obi-wan was  _strong_ in the Unifying Force, ridiculously so, and had the countenance of a man who had been through trials of one four times his age. Of one eho had been through trials no one should have. 

And for that...that alone, Qui-gon was sorry. Even if, aside from his drunken outburst, Obi-wan was the picture of Jedi serenity, of releasing his emotions into the Force - truly the "perfect Jedi Master" of Ahsoka's stories.

But Qui-gon knew better. That fire, that resistance - it was all still there, Obi-wan wouldn’t be this demonstrably angry, wouldn't have perfected his caustic tongue to such a degree if he was a paragon of Jedi virtue. Beyond that wall, there was...something. But what concerned Qui-gon was what he was coming to think of as an orb - a globe - crystalline, swirling with violet and red and blue and the mysterious dark matter of the Unifying Force - what terrified Qui-gon at a base level was that he sensed that this orb was _broken_ , that something had split in Obi-wan long ago, and his iron-clad control was only a cover for divesting so much, too much of his energy into filling those cracks.

And he was doing it alone, Qui-gon knew. Repressing everything, burying it. And that same inclination - perhaps a failing of Jedi teachings, but still - that impulse to deny, Qui-gon was certain, had been the demise of Dooku. It had almost been his own undoing. Qui-gon wouldn't sit back and let it take Obi-wan, as well.

“What happened with Satine, Obi-wan? Why didn’t the Council know about Mandalore?” 

Obi-wan stiffened, muscles tensing under his thin undertunic. The Force flared bright red, a supernova of pain and anger, nearly bowling Qui-gon off his feet. 

And then nothing. Only the persistent, muted hum - nearly inaudible - of Obi-wan’s Force presence.

“Something you have no right to ask about,” Obi-wan grit, not meeting Qui-gon’s concerned gaze.

Qui-gon started. He wanted to take the man in his arms, to wrap him in safety, to erase the pain he saw etched in Obi-wan's features.

But Obi-wan was an adult, and Qui-gon no longer held the power to make everything alright. In fact, he doubted he ever did. 

“I’m sorry, Obi-wan.”

“There was nothing you could have done.” Obi-wan spoke to the floor, his words dull, like tarnished, unkempt silver.

Qui-gon shook his head. “No, I - I am. Sorry, that is. For everything. Last night, you said -” The older man gulped, now joining Obi-wan in staring at the faded, grey rug. “Last night you said if I had waited on Naboo, perhaps things would have been different. I cannot say, as I did not live to see what transpired after. And a man once warned me about the dangers of living in the past. But, for what it is worth, I truly am sorry. It was never my intention to cause you such pain.”

The Force shivered, and Qui-gon glanced up to see Obi-wan's face soften. For a moment, Qui-gon thought he would let the mask slip, that Obi-wan would lift that iron curtain just one inch. But it vanished in an instant, as the younger man ran a hand over his face, pulling at his eyelids until he had rearranged his features behind that perfect Jedi Master veneer. 

Obi-wan sighed. “Perhaps you can take this new-found introspection and apply it to any number of events over the past twenty years, Qui-gon.” Obi-wan pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing through a noisy exhale. “Yes, your death was a painful event. The events that immediately _preceded_ your death were no less…distressing to me, at the time.”

Qui-gon frowned, not quite parsing Obi-wan’s meaning. 

“But, as you rightly said, it is not healthy to dwell on the past, and now it has been my undoing twice over in the past week. There is a war to be fought, and I have a responsibility to the Jedi Order and the Republic.” A wry smile formed on Obi-wan’s face, even as he continued to stare at the floor. “If, that is, the Council will allow me to continue my role after being informed of the truth of the events on Mandalore.”

“You had no intention of telling them?” Qui-gon stammered, frowning. If he knew one thing, it was that Obi-wan _always_ obeyed the Council.

Obi-wan scratched his head, chuckling softly. “And where do you think I picked up that habit?” But the moment of levity was short-lived as the younger man wrapped his arms around his abdomen again. “You sound like Anakin, believing me to be the poster-boy for the Jedi, the unquestioning lackey of the Council’s Orders.” 

Obi-wan sagged against the wall. “The truth, Qui-gon, is that some things are better left unknown, unsaid. There was a call for aid from Mandalore and the Council could not intervene due to our precarious political situation. I felt the decision to be…short-sighted.”

So Obi-wan was on the Council and yet, questioned its very orders, went  _against_ its orders - 

And despite himself, something warm bloomed in Qui-gon's chest. _He’s trying to reform by being on the inside, not like you and Dooku, who tried to change everything from the outside like a pair of banthas, And you both failed spectacularly._

“It was a trap,” Obi-wan continued, now having slid so far down the wall he was sitting on the floor, knees at his chest. He spoke into his legs, voice muffled. “And now Mandalore has been plunged into the very civil war Satine fought so hard to rebuild from. And we will do nothing, just as we did not, cannot, and will not do anything in any number of systems that require our help. The Republic government grows more and more corrupt, divorced from the needs of its people. The Jedi are falling further and further away from our mission to _help_ , Anakin grows more _angry_ by the day and I cannot _blame_ him in some cases, and…”

Obi-wan raised his head, eyes shining, voice trembling. 

“And then you appear from nowhere. A shining beacon, the monument to all my failures.”

The words landed a punch directly to Qui-gon's gut.

“Obi-wan, I never - “

Obi-wan waved a hand, pushing himself from the floor with the other, weaving as he came to his feet. “It doesn’t matter. The past is past. I must convene with the Council in what I am certain will be a _pleasant_ meeting for us all.”

The younger Jedi brushed past him, full of renewed energy. Qui-gon wondered how much it was costing Obi-wan to put up this front, both physically and mentally. The younger man grabbed a fresh outer tunic from a neglected-looking pile of laundry, dressing himself with the efficiency of a soldier. Which, Qui-gon supposed, Obi-wan was now. 

Obi-wan stuck a hand under the mattress, drawing out two datapads which he placed in the crook of his elbow. He stopped in front of a mirror, straightening his clothing, brushing some invisible dust from his shoulders in a motion that was far too reminiscent of another Jedi he once knew.

Or thought he knew.

After a cursory glance around the room, Obi-wan nodded to himself. He made to leave but stopped just as his hand hovered over the buttons of the door.

“Try not to anger the guards that are most likely on their way here. Don’t try to break out or do anything else… _you_ ,” Obi-wan spoke at the wall. “I am sure my former Padawan and his charge will ignore all orders to stay away from you, so do your best to not corrupt them too much. Anakin, I can assure you, is thrilled to have you back.” 

Obi-wan turned his head with a sad smile. 

“Perhaps you can be the grounding presence for him I could never be.”

The door _whooshed_ open, and Obi-wan exited, leaving a dumbfounded Qui-gon alone with the shadows of the past. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UHOH. 
> 
> I think we're going to get some Dooku action next chapter. :o
> 
> You know where to find me. [@legobiwan](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) OR [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Dooku so much. Oh, how I adore my complicated villains.
> 
> This, uh, got long. Lots of conversation. Anakin drops by. The usual chaos ensues.

The moon was waning. 

Sallow light filled the soulless, grey cavity of the observation deck. A dozen small orbs reflected off the corners of the large transparisteel windows, like celestial bees returning to their prismatic cells.

They were nothing more than mere drones, these false planetoids, these translucent simulacrums. Their very existence was contingent on a far-away body they had knowledge of, no control over. 

And yet they continued to shine, feeding on contrast, on the insoluble struggle betwixt dark and light. The night was their haven, their territory. This was their place of exultation, of possibility denied in the waking hours, when the sun would obliterate all but a small shadow of their existence. 

But moons shine even as suns rise, biding their time, hiding in the cover of the sun’s own pretension, in its impudent assumption of its continued, infinite existence. 

The cycle would end soon, the moon phasing behind the sun’s luminescent shadow, lying in wait until it was ascendant once again.

The war was nearing its conclusion. 

Yan Dooku feared he might follow.

They were not something easily teased out from the tangled strands of the Force, were Sidious’s intentions. Just as the new moon hid in plain sight, Dooku suspected the Sith's plans were right in front of him, obscured by his own blinding unwillingness to accept the truth. 

Dooku was not meant to stay in subservience to Sidious. This was the truth, backed by the whispers in the Force. But whether that shift would come from the fruition of Dooku’s own plots or some unforeseen circumstance driven by the man he was made to call Master was still unknown. 

Poetic irony was rarely lost on Dooku. A little more knowledge, a little more _light -_  and he could perhaps win this battle against Sidious. 

And then he would reshape the galaxy as he saw fit.

Dooku turned from the windows, suddenly no longer able to stomach the sight of the moon’s luminescence. He leaned over a holoprojection hovering above the control station, bracing his hands against the cool durasteel of the platform's edge.

He was weary.

Not in body. Even if he hadn’t made the necessary alliance with Sidious, even if he hadn’t sought out that dark, forbidden knowledge, the powers of which stretched far beyond what most could even imagine - Dooku was certain his abilities, his corporeal form would have remained unchanged. Still, he wondered. His own research and practice in the Sith arts had confirmed that use of the Dark Side could lead to unnatural life in many of its practitioners, even if most, if not all, did not manage to live long enough to reap the benefits. 

Such was the way of the Sith, after all. 

Dooku hummed. Another aspect of the Sith he planned to change once he finally rid the universe of Sidious’s reign. What point was there in this bitter upheaval, in this struggle to build a better galaxy, to create an alternative to the corrupt Republic, the stagnant Jedi -

What good was any of it if it was not passed on?

Unnatural extension of life held no interest to Yan Dooku. He, like all before him, would pass into memory in time. Jedi teachings saw death as a return, as part of a never-ending cycle that began, and ended, with the Force. In contrast, the Sith summarily ignored the afterlife, unless it was dealing in spirits or extension - in necrotic, malignant forms of midichlorian manipulation whose mere thought turned Dooku’s stomach. 

In truth, Dooku suspected all that waited for him at his end was the void. 

And in death, he would be as he was in life. 

Alone.

The Sith shivered, focusing his attention on the holoimage before him. It was a simple map, a schematic of a warehouse compound, large, grey boxes stacked haphazardly on one another, devoid of any artistry or care. A strictly utilitarian space. 

The sharp, pointed polygons flickered in a sickly blue. Dooku extended a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand towards the image. He held it before what he was certain was the main entrance to the central warehouse. His hand hovered, and Dooku peered at it like it was a lab specimen, as if it were some object he found at a market, some form of curio plucked from an old, forgotten chest.

History was etched on that hand, each line telling a million stories, each wrinkle a memory, a monument to a life he once knew.

Steady. Controlled. Not even the slightest tremor upset his fingers.

Impatient, Dooku banished all other thought and waved at the image. The rectangular, urban apiary rushed forward, threatening to envelop him. The once solid rules of geometry - lines delineating length, width, and height - dissolved in the face of the movement, disintegrating into streaks similar to those of the stars when one entered hyperspace. A new image appeared in its stead, emerging from the violent lattice.

An empty room. 

For all his wealth and aristocratic status, Yan Dooku did not feel the need to flaunt his possessions, nor his ability to simply purchase what he, or the Separatist cause, lacked. Of course, he enjoyed the finer things in life, as he should. As a noble, a scholar descended from one of Serenno’s most ancient families, he, and his bloodline, had earned that right. The Jedi sought to renounce all physical markers of wealth, of status-seeking, of attachment (not enough, he mused, that they would ever take down the large bronzium statues in the antechambers of the Temple, or do away with the Room of a Thousand Fountains.) Shadow grew heavy in the Force at the thought, a dark, viscous oil plunging through water. 

_ Hypocrisy. _

Dooku brushed the lapel of his tunic. His displays of wealth, just like the Jedi’s, demanded respect. And he, unlike the Order which had sought to indoctrinate him, did not pretend otherwise. There was meaning in every affect, or every lack of it - secrets squirreled away behind a cracked mirror or an antique statue. 

There were messages inscribed in those bare walls, in the dirt and squalor of the empty, forgotten space.

The Works was no normal abandoned warehouse.

It was a site of horrors, of the criminal, of the unnatural. Dooku shook his head. The massacre of hundreds of thousands of beings was only a droplet of blood in the ocean of violence both physical and metaphysical that had taken place in that empty room. Dooku was not a superstitious man, but even he had quivered with misgiving upon entering the space that first time so many years ago.

The very walls had seemed to shriek at Palpatine's entrance, their cries echoing in his ears, the phantoms of beings begging for mercy. For release.

Dooku soon learned why.

Sidious’s experiments knew no bounds. He sought to alter life itself - to enervate the dead, to create that spark of existence from primordial evil - extending life, transferring his own essence, all from his dark manipulations. The screams of vagabonds, the mentally ill, errant clones - those who were considered missing in action, those abandoned by the Republic, those who sought refuge from the horrors of a war Dooku himself was perpetrating - their screams joined the chorus of the dead in that depraved space, their souls cleaved in half, their minds rent asunder, their free will toyed with as a Lothcat might paw at its prey.

It was one thing to be Sith, to fall in order to foment change in a broken system, but this…

And yet he could not say no to his master, could not stop the destruction of his own soul as he dipped his hands in the basin of sacrificial blood, as he extended those same hands outwards. Hands which dripped with the life of others, each drop falling with a thick  _splat_ as the pathetic lifeform - already half-drowned - spasmed, then writhed, screaming as the two Sith directed their energies towards it.

The Force was  _ablaze_ , its fine patchwork visible in that single moment the creature was torn from its corporeal form. Dooku gaped as each molecule of life, of the universe itself, became evident, intersecting with others in a swarm of creation and destruction. Midichlorians grew on the far horizon, like the rising sun - life anew, born of memory, just as others shorted out, flickering in their final gasps before the darkness swept in and fed on their empty carcasses. Dooku held out his hand, reaching for a small orb that had flittered in front of his face. It was no larger than his palm, pulsing in tandem with his own heartbeat. A single blue light illuminated in the dark. Dooku pulled the object towards him, cupping it near his chest. 

Life. A single molecule of life born of destruction. 

Dooku tore his attention away from the ball as the ground quivered. Sidious cackled, his broken laughter echoing from every corner of the space, his body moving at impossible speed, arms extended in a mockery of dance, the very essence of the galaxy moving with him as he ripped midichlorians from existence. Dooku stood mesmerized by the violent artistry of this rank transgression.

Protective instinct took over. Dooku brought the little ball closer to his body. He shouldn’t care about this one small, ultimately meaningless globule. It, too, would die today, be swept up by forces far more powerful than itself. 

Vomit threatened to rise in Dooku’s throat as the macabre dance continued, Sidious reaching, pulling a ribbon of midichlorians across the room, their cries fluttering in paroxysms through the air.

Would he, too, debase himself in such ways, meddle with the very foundations of existence? Would he continue bloody his hands, scar his soul by methods he had once thought unimaginable?

And to what end? He did not seek immortality for himself, nor did he desire the creation of life. A futile gesture in a galaxy where it would only be wiped from existence again after a few meaningless, pitiful years.

So many would give anything for this power, to raise the dead, to bring their loved ones - their friends, their family, the comrades - back to life.

But Dooku had no allies, save the soulless automatons which did his bidding with the tweak of a hydrospanner, with the addition of a line of code. Even that monstrosity Grievous was no more than a complicated beta test of cyborg technology.

The little blue orb bounced in excitement, stirring memory, poking at a tangled nest of emotions he thought long-buried.

He could…

_ No. _

Strong fingers closed around the orb, the little ball releasing a desperate cry as Dooku crushed the object in his hand.

_ Sentiment. _

Nothing more than hollow, rank sentiment. There was a war to fight, and the holoclock would not stop for Yan Dooku, nor for anyone else. 

_He_ would soon hold the very strings of the universe. No matter what the cost.

Dooku waved the map away with an impatient gesture, taking a seat behind the mammoth console. 

Something had stirred that night.

Something beyond his power, perhaps even beyond Sidious’s.

Dooku closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force. The little orb of light shone in his mind, dancing on the periphery of his consciousness. 

The shadow of a name played on his lips.

He could not travel to Coruscant.

But there were other ways to draw out the Jedi. 

Dooku punched in a communication number. 

“Get me General Grievous.”

 

* * *

  

“No, wait - I - “

“I’m sorry, but we have to confiscate that.”

“Come on, it’s only - “

The rest of the conversation was rendered inaudible by the scuffling on the other side of the door. To Qui-gon’s ears, it was as if a hoard of gigantic _drochs_ had taken up residence in the corridor, their sharp pincers grating against the walls as their ten short, scaly legs scrambled in this direction and that, the syncopation of their clicks and pops reminiscent of a _jizz_ drum solo.

Qui-gon bit his lip, drifting closer to the entryway, extending his senses with the Force. The frenzied scrambling was settling into a murmur, a cluster of tenor voices speaking just under the threshold of audibility.

He would have to wait. Qui-gon wasn’t even certain the person arguing with this so-called security detail  _was_ Anakin. It had been years since he had heard the younger man's voice last, after all. And while, yes, Anakin  _had_ been present for that initial exchange on the lower levels, Qui-gon's recollection of those events was shaky, at best, as any conversation had been lost in the ungodly roar that had settled between his ears after -

Qui-gon squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

After Obi-wan had punched him.

The Jedi let out a deep, tired sigh, laying his forehead on the cold metal of Obi-wan’s door.

“Hey!” 

The exclamation shook Qui-gon from his grey reverie as chilly responsibility nipped at his bare toes. Qui-gon had thrown off his grimy boots as soon as Obi-wan and the Council had left, indulging himself in a long, hot shower. Once free of the filth of the underlevels, Qui-gon had wrapped himself in a towel, one of three similar items, all teal blue, he had found stacked on an unloved hamper in the corner of the ‘fresher.

A gift, he had surmised, using the soft fabric to dry his long, tangled hair. No standard-issue Jedi towels came in any colors as creative as this distinctive teal, and Qui-gon didn’t have to cast his mind far to come up with the name of the mystery benefactor. The small embroidery along the edge served as confirmation, as the pattern was common among only a small sect of artisans. Qui-gon wasn’t even sure they still lived at this point, as they had been old during that  _first_  mission to Mandalore. He doubted the artisans had survived long enough to see the renewed violence of the past few weeks.

A blessing, perhaps.

Qui-gon padded back into the bedroom. A set of clean clothing had been left on the bed in his absence. A kind gesture, to be certain, as it provided him with at least a minimum standard of comfort, not making him fester in the soiled tunics he had likely died in. Qui-gon held up the beige, long-sleeved shirt. Not a Jedi uniform, but rather a simple top and pants combination which held more than a little resemblance to the clothing given out to those who spent significant time in the Healing Quarters.

If Qui-gon wasn’t so uncertain as to his former Padawan’s motives, he would have laughed. The gesture reeked of Obi-wan’s droll humor, as the only person who avoided the Healing Halls with more dedication than his former student was Qui-gon himself. And dressed like this, there was no way Qui-gon would be able to travel through the Temple unnoticed. 

Not that he had any plans of making an escape. 

Not yet, anyway. 

“Well-played, Padawan,” he had spoken to the walls, opening the small note that had been placed on top of the neatly-folded pile of clothing. Qui-gon hadn’t even needed to read the contents of the message to know who it was from. The sharp, precise handwriting left a surprising, nostalgic ache in his chest.

 

_ “I assume you will have found the towels by now. There is a spare toiletry kit behind the mirror and tea in the kitchen cupboard. I am afraid I am unable to offer much else at the moment, as I have not had the opportunity to replenish my food supplies and neither the Council nor I will want you to have access to a datapad before you are questioned further. I shall return in a few hours. -Kenobi _

_ PS - Again, I would strongly advise against interacting with your security detail. They tend to be a bit tetchy and you stand on tenuous ground at the moment.” _

 

Kenobi. 

Not Obi-wan - just…Kenobi. 

Qui-gon sighed, folding the note. He pulled on the too-familiar clothing, mulling over the various misdirections in the small missive. The complicated pattern of mixed messages was giving him a headache, not to mention he was still reeling from the aftershocks of the conversation they had shared not more than an hour ago. Obi-wan had accused him of, at best, malignant neglect, had had not even a single smile or a kind word to spare for his former Master,  _and had punched Qui-gon in the face._ And yet, Obi-wan was seemingly going out of his way to limit the collateral damage his return was causing, was attempting to make his detainment at least somewhat palatable. Qui-gon had no idea what to make of it all, and without Obi-wan there to explain the state of the galaxy, of their relationship, to him, there was no point in dwelling on it any further.

And so Qui-gon had been distracting himself by trimming his bedraggled facial hair when the commotion had broken out behind the door. 

Unintelligible murmurs coalesced into speech, fading in as if from a distant Holonet station. “…Master Kenobi and the Council have only allowed this much, Knight Skywalker.”  The speaker's voice was muted, a little tinny. Familiarity tugged at Qui-gon's senses. 

_If those other presences are who I think they are, your penchant for understatement may need recalibrating, Padawan. _

Security was one thing. A prisoner detail was quite another.

But at least he was now certain it was Anakin out there arguing, his indignation in the Force heavy enough to cause the door to whine in protest.

Anakin was  _strong_ , almost ludicrously so. 

And not doing a very good job of hiding his displeasure, his emotions so close to the surface they were practically being broadcast in bright-lit Aurebesh for all the Temple to read.

Was this what Obi-wan had meant with that cryptic statement? True, Qui-gon would have expected Anakin’s shielding to be a little more advanced at this juncture, considering his prodigious abilities. And it seemed out-of-character for Obi-wan to let something of that magnitude slide for so long.

Then again, if he had learned anything in the past day, it was that Qui-gon didn’t know a damned thing about this new Obi-wan. And by logical extension, he didn't really know Anakin, either. At least, the Anakin that stood on the other side of the door, now hurling Huttese expletives at the guards through the Force.

Qui-gon grimaced. No, perhaps Anakin’s shielding wasn’t a problem, after all.

An ominous scraping of metal against duracrete wrested Qui-gon from his contemplations. His stomach dropped.  _Force pikes._  While he had no doubt Anakin would be able to handle himself just fine, a violent showdown in the corridors of the Jedi Temple - at the doors of Obi-wan's own quarters, no less - wasn't exactly the definition of "staying out of trouble." And even if he didn't step outside, didn't interact with the guards, didn't interfere, per Obi-wan's orders, Qui-gon was certain that if the situation  _did_ escalate, somehow the blame would be traced back to him.

Better to head off disaster before it occurred. 

To be a grounding presence.

And so with a sharp flick of his arm, Qui-gon yanked the hydraulic door open. The older Jedi stepped forward, squinting at the bright lights of the corridor, his face otherwise a perfect mask of cheery diplomacy. 

“What seems to be the problem, my friends?”

Anakin’s eyes went wide. “Master Qui-gon!”

_Security detail, my rather large foot, Obi-wan._ Two Temple guards - Sentinels, in fact - were facing off with Anakin, who was crouched in a defensive combat position, hand hovering above his lightsaber. 

“Hello, Ani,” Qui-gon greeted, as if he were stopping by for afternoon tea. He stepped forward, extending his long leg over the threshold between Obi-wan’s quarters and the hallway.

Metal met metal in a deafening crash. The clamor reached his ears before he registered the movement of two Force-pikes crossing before his face in a silver “X”. 

“Oh, come on - it’s Master Qui-gon!” Anakin exclaimed, throwing his arm out as he rolled his eyes. Qui-gon’s heart warmed at Ani’s passionate defense of his innocence even as his skin tingled from the proximity of the deadly energy weapons. 

“It’s okay, Anakin,” Qui-gon reassured, slightly breathless. He had not expected  _that_ reaction from the guards. “They’re only following orders.”

The words soured in his mouth, leaving a rancid aftertaste. "Only following orders" was often the cause of too much suffering in the galaxy, a means of justifying preventable atrocities, excusing actions that in any other circumstance would be considered criminal, inhumane, or worse.

Qui-gon wondered how many times someone on the Council had uttered those exact words. Too many, to his recollection. 

“It’s _bantha-shit_ , is what it is!” Anakin shouted, glaring plasma bolts at the two Sentinels from the other side of the barrier.

Qui-gon was inclined to agree, albeit in less florid terms. It seemed some on the Council still considered him a threat, enough that the word "prisoner" seemed a more apt term for his predicament. He chased away the sobering thought that it was perhaps Obi-wan himself who had requested this, who saw so little to redeem in his former Master that he would believe him an enemy just for the crime of being pulled back to the living through no direct fault of his own.

As insane as the idea sounded, Qui-gon had to weigh the possibility that he had no allies on the Council at present, even Master Yoda. And with that in mind, he determined to do no harm - to not endager Anakin, to send no more crashing waves into the hollow supports that teetered beneath him and Obi-wan. And if that meant obeying the Council’s ridiculous, paranoid orders...

“If I am not allowed out, may I at least ask what the issue seems to be here?” Qui-gon bit, channeling every ounce of the imperious nature of his former Master. Sith or not, Dooku's cold disdain did come in handy at times. He looked down at the two masked guards, thankful for his commanding height, crossing his arms across his chest. Two white-silver metal veils turned to face him, eyes replaced by small, dark slits. The Force was a void around them, their intentions invisible. 

Qui-gon had never been fond of the Temple Guards.

“Knight Skywalker and Padawan Tano have been granted access to these quarters, per the orders of Councillor Kenobi,” the Guard responded, monotone in their delivery.  “However, no outside items may be brought into the premises.”

Anakin crossed his arms with a scowl. “I just wanted to bring some food,” he muttered at the floor. “It’s not like Obi-wan’s been around to stock up on groceries and last time I checked, the Order didn’t starve its prisoners.”

Qui-gon’s eyebrows shot upwards. It seemed he wasn't the only one to draw a similar conclusion about the nature of his status in the Temple at present.

“I appreciate the effort, Anakin, but I find my appetite hasn’t quite returned yet.” 

Anakin’s eyes darted to the side, his face drooping like a sad baby animal. Baffled, Qui-gon followed the trail of his gaze past the two Force pikes barring his exit, landing on a speck of red peeking out from under the arm of the guard on his left. Curiosity won out over common sense, and Qui-gon craned his neck, attempting to get a better glimpse at the out-of-place, vibrant package.

“Naboo sweetcakes,” Anakin grumbled. 

Well, that _was_ a shame. Jedi were not supposed to show attachment, but Qui-gon allowed himself a moment to grieve the loss of the pastries. Naboo’s culinary delicacies were celebrated the galaxy over, and their sweetcakes were found on the dining tables of any number of high-society dinners and diplomatic functions. Qui-gon wondered where Anakin had gotten a hold of a box. They were prohibitively expensive if one did not have on-planet connections.

As if on cue, Qui-gon's stomach growled. 

“Well, I’m certain the Guards will protect your belongings.” Qui-gon raised an eyebrow at two sentries. Let the Temple Guards enjoy them. Maybe it would lighten their all-too dour mood.

Ignoring the subtle jibe, the guard to his right extended his arm in Anakin’s direction, palm open. Rolling his eyes dramatically, Anakin heaved a put-upon sigh, unclipping his lightsaber from his belt, placing it in the Guard’s care with a none-to-gentle  _thwack_ of metal against leather. The younger man pointed a finger in the guard's direction. 

“Don’t lose that, either. That weapon is my life, you know.”

It took every ounce of control for Qui-gon not to snort in response. Obi-wan's deadpan humor was infectious, it seemed. 

Lightsaber dispensed with, the guards uncrossed their Force pikes, standing aside to allow Anakin entrance into the room. Qui-gon pulled the younger man in by the arm, eager to avoid any more unpleasantness, not wanting his traitorous stomach to undermine what little authority he had been able to muster during the brief confrontation. 

The door _clicked_ shut, sealing the two Jedi inside. 

“Uh…Master Qui-gon?”

Qui-gon looked down. He was holding the sleeve of Anakin’s tunic, his knuckles white against the rough magenta fabric. 

Interesting color choice, Qui-gon noted absently. Although wearing blacks and greys and other dark colors wasn’t explicitly forbidden, it was frowned upon for breaking with thousands of years of Jedi tradition. And because certain high-ranking, closed-minded beings on the Order felt it to be symbolic. 

A ridiculous notion, Master Dooku had asserted. 

Although look where he had ended up. 

Qui-gon shooed the thought away, releasing his iron-tight grip on Anakin’s sleeve. The imprints of his fingers were visible on the fabric, the distressed material forming an entirely new landscape of mountains and canyons. 

“Are you okay, Master Qui-gon?” Anakin ran a hand through his hair, shifting back and forth on his feet.

“Fine, Ani. Just fine,” he replied, not feeling fine at all. Not when he was a prisoner of the very Order he had served for so many years. "And it's just Qui-gon. I am not your Master and as of right now, I am not technically a Jedi, either."

Anakin glanced up from under the shadow of his bangs, the side of his mouth quirking upwards. Somewhere in that look was the little Ani he remembered - boisterous, caring, and possessing an odd streak of shyness, something that had only been exacerbated once he had come to the Jedi Temple.

“Well,” Anakin said, tracing an invisible pattern on the floor tile with the heel of his boot. “I’m glad you’re here. That you're - you know - “

The younger man’s foot hovered mid-circle, his leg extended in a comical pose that seemed a poor imitation of the intricate movements seen on stage at the Mon Calamari ballet. But the inverse arabesque was left unfinished as a blur of brown and red tunics rushed towards Qui-gon, enveloping him in a tight embrace. 

“It’s so good to see you, Master Qui-gon,” Anakin muttered into the older man’s shoulder, his grip tightening around Qui-gon’s back. 

Icy panic froze Qui-gon in place, but Anakin only reasserted his grip on the older man. Joy melted through the fear and laughter bubbled from Qui-gon’s chest, a wide smile stretching across his face. Long-forgotten muscle memory returned, creaking back from rusty disuse as Qui-gon brought his own arms up, at first hesitant, finally returning the embrace with equal emotion. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Anakin.”

 

* * *

 

Qui-gon set the mug on the table, steam floating off the deep red liquid in a complicated pattern of curls and curves. Between him and Anakin, they had managed to scrounge up a pair of mismatched, dusty ceramic dishware from the bowels of Obi-wan’s kitchen cabinets. Anakin had rooted through a series of drawers, monologuing about Obi-wan’s tendency to stash tea in the most unlikely of places, how he and Ahsoka had once found a bag of it hiding in the barrel of a decommissioned blaster.

“And then he says, ‘Just in case, Anakin.’ In case what? He encounters battledroids with a caf-leaf allergy?”

Qui-gon chuckled, taking a seat on the opposite side of the couch, which sighed with the added weight. Some things, he supposed, never changed.

“Well, Obi-wan was always a bit of an unconventional hoarder. Remind me to tell you about time he ordered twenty-seven robes from the quartermaster’s office. I thought Master Henlei would have a heart attack.”

Anakin laughed, settling into in his own seat. “Maybe he had a vision he’d lose his robe on every other mission as an adult.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-gon smiled, bringing his drink to his mouth.

Scalding pain seared through the soft skin of Qui-gon's lips. The Jedi grimaced, jerking the mug away from his face.

“Hot,” he rasped, placing the offending item on the arm of the couch, safely away from his own damned impatience. 

Heat rose in Qui-gon's cheeks as he caught Anakin biting the inside of his cheek, hand covering his mouth. “I'll have none of that sass from you, Knight Skywalker," he teased, voice light with the false reprimand. "Anyway, I’ve heard a lot about Ahsoka and her accomplishments; and much regarding Obi-wan’s unfortunate hoarding habits, but little about you. How are you, Anakin? There is so much I want to ask you about. Your apprenticeship. Your Knighting. How you've acclimated to the Jedi.” 

The war. Dooku’s turn. His own death.

A nervous laugh sounded from the younger man, whose face was now hidden behind his own mug, which was inexpertly painted in warring shades of garish bright green and sickly yellow, looking much like a youngling's art project. Anakin started, crinkling his nose as he yanked the mug away from his face, liquid spilling over the edge, falling onto his thigh. 

“ _Hot_ ,” he hissed, depositing the offending piece of dishware on a dull, grey sidetable, rubbing his leg with his other hand, face contorted in pain. 

"I hate when that happens," he grumbled, picking at the damp fabric of his pants, shooting Qui-gon an embarrassed smile. “There's a lot to say, Master Qui-gon. I’m not even sure where to begin.”

“Begin where you wish, Anakin,” Qui-gon responded, "and the rest will follow." 

Anakin's hand drifted from his pants leg to the sidetable where he had stashed his tea. But instead of reaching for his drink, the younger Jedi opened a drawer, pulling out a small bit of metal. It was some kind of droid component, maybe an accelerometer. Wires fell from the object, copper sticking out of the ends where they had been presumably ripped away from their base. Mechanics had never been a subject Qui-gon had excelled in, although he could hold his own when the situation necessitated it. But the very nature of droids was so far removed from the Living Force that he had forgone any further study beyond the basic Jedi curriculum.  

"You know, the Council likely wouldn't approve of me being near any type of object that could be turned into a communication device," Qui-gon commented, a wry smile on his face. Anakin, on the other hand, had always been gifted in mechanics, in engineering, and Qui-gon doubted the passage of time would have done anything to quell that natural instinct. Even in their short time together, he had been awed with Anakin's prowess with machinery, the way he was able to meld with inanimate components, almost as if he were part machine himself. Qui-gon was certain given a few hours, the younger man could turn the simple parts in his hand into whatever he wanted.

Anakin turned the small silver rectangle over, holding it up to the light, tugging at wires. He paused, frowning, tapping his right index finger against the piece of metal.

" _Kriff_ the Council," he snarled, fixing Qui-gon with a pointed look.

Qui-gon opened his mouth to rebuke the harsh words but then thought better of it. Truth be told, his own opinion of the Council was not at its highest at the moment, even taking Obi-wan's presence on the vaunted Jedi body into account. He could not wrap his mind around the many events of the past day, could not reconcile the meager morsels of information he had been fed with the supposed mission of the Council, of the Jedi at large. And while he  _should_ take Anakin to task for addressing the Council in such terms, Qui-gon found his heart just wasn't in it.

Not while he was their unwilling prisoner, at least.

Anakin tapped the device again. Qui-gon quirked an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. Something about the sound was odd to his ears. 

"Anyway, I'm a Jedi now," Anakin stated, his voice bright. "It's - I guess it's what I dreamed about on Tatooine," he shrugged, not peeling his eyes from the small piece of circuitry.

The words were what Qui-gon had wanted so desperately to hear - that Anakin was happy, that despite all his initial difficulties, he had settled into life in the Order. But the Force itched in all the wrong places at the statement, causing Qui-gon to feel as if he had just donned an inside-out bantha-hair shirt.

"I've learned a lot," Anakin continued, his eyes darting to Qui-gon. "Become friends with the Chancellor. And Padme's here. You remember her, right?"

How could he not? The young, brave Queen who had accompanied him on Tatooine despite his warnings, who had sat with him during the pod race, twisting her hands in anxiety with every far-off crash, who had taken blaster in hand to defend her people, her planet against the Trade Federation. A remarkable young woman.

"And of course Ahsoka's been great. Best Padawan in the Temple," Anakin boasted, his chest puffing. Qui-gon frowned, his mind still stuck on the strange tapping. Flesh on metal didn’t make that sound, didn’t release those specific waves into the Force. Qui-gon looked again at Anakin, who was ensconced in inspecting the object. "And then there's Rex." The words came faster, eliding together in a stream of nervous energy. "And Cody. Who's also great but a little too much like - " 

“Anakin, what happened to your arm?” 

The small device which had been in Anakin's hands zipped up to the ceiling, floating like a strange metal cloud. 

“I, uh…” Anakin stammered, eyeing Qui-gon with trepidation. The metal mechanism shivered in the air, then fell. Anakin shot a hand out, catching it in his palm before it hit the ground. He stared at the object in his open hand, scrutinizing its every wire, as if the answer to Qui-gon's inquiry laid in the intricate soldering the circuit board.

“There was a fight," he finally began, his words deliberate. "A duel. On Geonosis.” Anakin closed his fist around the device, running his other hand over his hair, distressing it into a wild tangle of brown and blonde. He blew out a large, noisy breath through puffed cheeks.

“Should have listened to Obi-wan." The words dragged through clenched teeth. "But I didn’t. And - “ Anakin held up the small device he had palmed in his fingers with a somewhat bemused smile. 

“Well, I always did like machines."

“How long?” Qui-gon asked, his attention now fully focused on Anakin's right arm. Incredible. He never would have guessed save for the sound, for the variations in the Force. 

Anakin shrugged, beginning to fiddle with the mechanism again, peering at it through half-closed eyes. The Force built, wave upon wave, flame growing higher, wider in a multitude of impossible colors.

Sparks flew from the wires, a small plume of smoke erupting from the piece of metal as Anakin yelped, tossing the device on the table.  The device shook, inching forward in a series of violent tremors before giving one last gasp, fizzling out with a sad whine. Not yet finished, it then erupted in a small conflagration, burning yet another hole in the battered table before dying out of its own accord. 

Anakin chuckled.  “Didn’t want to set the couch on fire.” Playful eyes found Qui-gon’s own. “Again.”

Qui-gon hummed in response. Well, that explained the color change, at least. 

“Anyway," Anakin sighed. "It happened at the beginning of the war. Well, I guess it was the beginning of the war. That’s when we found out about the Separatists, the clones…” All hint of amusement disappeared from Anakin's expression as his eyes narrowed, jaw tensing as the Force let our a dangerous shriek. 

“Count Dooku.” 

There was no mistaking the naked hostility infused in Anakin’s utterance of his former Master’s name.

An uncomfortable cramp seized in Qui-gon's lower abdomen, stabbing pain shooting up from his stomach through his chest. Qui-gon grimaced, pulling on the skin through his shirt with both his hands.  He took a deep, steadying breath, allowing the new air to travel downwards, opening his muscles, willing them to relax, to open, to feed on the Living Force. He repeated the exercise a few more times as his abdomen unfurled from its solid tension layer by recalcitrant layer. 

"Master Qui-gon - are you okay?" Anakin's face was wide, all his former anger forgotten.

"Fine, Anakin." The answer was too breathy for his liking, his voice not quite solid. At least, he  _would_ be fine if everyone quit dropping galaxy-shattering revelations every five minutes. Qui-gon waved a hand, forcing a smile. "Just an aftereffect of coming back from the dead, I suppose."

Anakin shifted, bringing his fingers to his communicator. "Maybe we should - "

Qui-gon scowled. "Maybe we should get back to our conversation." The last thing Qui-gon wanted right now was the Council, or Obi-wan, breaking down the door with even more bad news.

Anakin's face fell, his shoulders drooping as he stared into his lap. "Sorry," he mumbled. 

Qui-gon could have kicked himself. Perhaps he had left all his good sense in the afterlife.

"No, _my_  apologies, Anakin," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I did not mean to snap at you. I am just...not eager for another encounter with the Council at the moment."

_Fantastic job,_ _Jinn. He's only trying to help. Why don't you alienate every ally you might have in this Force-forsaken place?_

Anakin's eyebrows rose. "No one ever is."

An idea occurred to the older Jedi. "Hang on a second." Qui-gon reached over the edge of the couch, fishing around the dingy pile of rent fabric that had once been his tunics until his fingers stuck leather. He wondered if the object was still there. When Jedi died, their corpses were generally burned, and Qui-gon was certain he had been no exception. But seeing as his body had defied all laws of physics, it might still be -

_There._  Qui-gon’s fingers wrapped around the bit of metal, jagged edges biting into the sensitive palm of his hand. 

“A replacement for your other component.” Qui-gon held out his arm, offering the small, broken communicator to Anakin, whose eyes sparkled with renewed curiosity. He plucked the item from Qui-gon’s fingers, turning it over, flashing the older Jedi a small, shy smile.

"Apology accepted, Master Qui-gon."

Qui-gon grinned in return. While there were few constants in an ever-changing universe, Anakin Skywalker's love of mechanics would likely last until the end of time. 

Anakin toyed with the communicator, fascinated with the piece of now-antiquated technology. Qui-gon observed, struck by the way the Force seemed to respond to Anakin's machinations, how small molecules near the object would warp - stretching wide, then compressing into tiny, almost invisible balls. It was a manipulation of the Force he had never seen before, and if he didn't know better, Qui-gon would have guessed the metal components were sentient, judging from their reactions alone.  

"You know, Master Qui-gon, give me a few days and I can probably get this to work again," Anakin stated, his nose still deep in electrical components. "Might even be able to pull up the last few transmissions. When did you use this last, do you remember?"

Memories of that fateful day on Naboo rose from the depths of the Force, floating near the watery surface of his mind, misshapen by the refraction of light and wave. He and Obi-wan had slipped past the Trade Federation, were readying themselves to aid the Naboo armies when the Sith had appeared, the red and black Zabrack with the double-bladed lightsaber. The fight was a blur, as Qui-gon had had to use every bit of his strength, his concentration to combat the Sith, to ensure Obi-wan remained safe, that he wasn't harmed. The Force stirred around the memory, shades of deep red flitting in his vision, a silent plea to wait, a final prayer thrown up to the Force and then...

Nothing. 

Qui-gon rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not entirely sure, Anakin. I may have given the Council one last update before Obi-wan and I infiltrated the Palace on Naboo."

"So nothing that might shed light on how you came back."

"I doubt it," Qui-gon shook his head.

Anakin brightened. "Maybe it picked up transmissions from when you were, well, wherever you were." He threw Qui-gon a calculating look. "Do you - do you remember anything? From when  you were dead?"

To be honest, Qui-gon was surprised no one had thought to ask him yet. Death was the great unknown, and while the Jedi celebrated the return to the Force, no one was too eager to be early to the party. Anakin was young, had his whole life ahead of him and yet was surrounded by death and destruction on a daily basis. No wonder he wanted to know what mysteries lay beyond this life.

Unfortunately, Qui-gon had no answers. "Nothing of note, Anakin. I became one with the Force that day on Naboo. My next memory was waking up in a cold and very unwelcoming warehouse."

Anakin's lips pressed in a thin line. "It's just that - you came back. You were dead, and then you came back. I thought - " 

"You thought I might hold the secrets to life and death," Qui-gon replied, not without sympathy. "You are not the first to seek these answers, Anakin, nor will you be the last. But my return was the will of the Force, something beyond my control, my understanding. I doubt I will ever know what allowed me to come back."

"But we're Jedi," Anakin protested, desperation clinging to his words."We control the Force. The Force can be willed, we do it every day!"

Qui-gon hesitated.

"It...has been tried. By many." Anakin's eyes lit up with hope. "And many lost their souls, even their lives in the process. Necromancy is a dark art, Anakin. Only the Sith have ever made the attempt. It is not something you should even consider." 

Except...

That wasn't quite true. Qui-gon bit his lip. This was not the time to delve into the Whills. It was considered a crackpot theory, even among the most liberal of Jedi, and Qui-gon had kept his own study of it secret, even from Obi-wan. A different type of immortality, a connection to the Force so full, so complete, one could compel the individual particles to create a kind of shadow, a ghost or spirit, a remembrance of the deceased's consciousness. Was it any different than the dark experiments spoken of only in whispers, in the most restricted holocrons and flimsis of the Jedi Archives? Supposedly the Whills were beyond the simple binary of light and dark, were servants of neutral and impartial Force. But...any attempt to circumvent the natural cycle of life and decay - it was a dangerous enterprise, even for those with the purest of intentions. And while Qui-gon was certain he was not a Sith plot, he wasn't as sure he might not be... a grey contrivance of his own doing. 

Anakin's eyes cast downwards, his body slumping on the couch. "Yeah. I guess...I guess that would be too much to ask."

Qui-gon laid a gentle hand on Anakin's shoulder. "Do not fear for the dead, Anakin, for they are at peace."

"It's not fair," Anakin said, eyes blinking.

"No, it's not. But death is part of life. And we must accept it, be ready to let go."

Anakin let out a humorless laugh. "You sound like Obi-wan."

"I would say Obi-wan sounds like me, as I seem to remember being the one who taught him that very concept."

Anakin pursed his lips, gaze flitting around the room. "He did - he did grieve, you know. In his own way. The beginning of my apprenticeship - he was so distant, so cold. I thought he didn't care - about you, about me. But at night, when I couldn't sleep. It was all so new, and mo - " Anakin's face scrunched. "Mom was so far away. And I would come to his door - it was always open, at least a crack. I peeked inside. He just was - there, on his bed, arms around his shins, head buried in his knees. I think I remember him shaking. He did that for weeks, at first. Thought I didn't know. He didn't even mention you by name until a few years later."

A kind of twisted pain wormed its way into Qui-gon's body. Not as malignant as a poison, nor as swift as a blaster bolt, a kind of fiery secretion wrought from his own guilt that burnt his very blood. In his time, he had seen Padawans nearly undone by the untimely death of their Master. Qui-gon himself had grieved losses of those close to him - and, if he were being honest, had not handled it all that well. He pictured Obi-wan, a fresh Jedi Knight - Obi-wan, who had defeated the Sith, who had taken Anakin as his Padawan, who had buried his Master all in a matter of days -

"And  _that's_ why I don't understand how he could have done it."

Qui-gon frowned. "Done what, Anakin?"

"Faked his death."

Time stopped as Qui-gon attempted to parse the meaning of Anakin's statement.

But Anakin was on his feet, kinetic energy shooting everywhere, his arms flying out in all directions, pacing a rut into the carpet. "He knew! He knew exactly what I would go through! And he still went along with the Council's plan." 

Qui-gon gaped, his mind racing to catch up with Anakin's words. 

The Force groaned. "I mean, _kriff_ , Ahsoka held his body. There was a _kriffing_ funeral and then he says it was his duty to lie to all of us, that the Council made the decision and there was no acting against it.”

Sweat began to bead on Qui-gon's forehead. The room spun unpleasantly, its revolutions matching those of Anakin's frenetic pacing. Qui-gon blinked, trying to reassert his balance. “Anakin, sit. Please. I’m - " Confused. Overwhelmed. He gestured at the empty space on the couch. "Can you please explain exactly what happened?”

Anakin froze and the Force surged. For a terrible moment, Qui-gon thought Anakin would barrel from the quarters, taking out the two guards as he went. That he would march directly up to the Council chamber to give them a piece of his mind, or worse. Qui-gon idly wondered if it had happened before. Judging from the wear in the carpet, it may not have been an uncommon occurrence.

But the terrible cataclysm that threatened to rise in the Force dissipated as quickly as it had come. Anakin’s eyes clouded and he deflated, shoulders hunching as he collapsed into the couch, head resting on its back, gaze trained towards the ceiling.

“I mean," Anakin sighed. "I don’t even know everything. But the Council caught wind the Chancellor was going to be kidnapped. So for _some_ reason, they decided the best plan was to fake Obi-wan’s death and have him go deep undercover as a bounty hunter to infiltrate Dooku’s inner circle.”

Dread pooled in Qui-gon’s gut. “And he didn’t tell you that he was going to do this.”

Anakin shook his head in response. 

“It was…it was _horrible_ , Master Qui-gon." Anakin's voice cracked. "And he _knew_ it would be. And he did it anyway.”

That - that was not acceptable. Not from the Council. And certainly not from Obi-wan. How dare  _any_ of them go through with such a foolhardy, dangerous, damaging plan? 

The Force had brought Qui-gon back. But what purpose could he serve in a galaxy so wrong, so distorted from the reality he knew? What would he do in a timeline that was the logical conclusion to his worst fears, his darkest premonitions?

Qui-gon moved to the center of the couch, taking Anakin’s shoulders in a strong grip.

“Anakin - I am so sorry.”

The younger Jedi went stiff, still averting Qui-gon's gaze.

"We teach the Jedi to let go of our attachments. That part of caring is being able to let go. But this - "

Any further explanation was cut off by the _whoosh_ of the hydraulic door. A moment later, a weary Obi-wan appeared in the doorway, eyes darting back and forth between the two men, Qui-gon's hands still latched onto Anakin's shoulders in a protective gesture. 

Anger pooled in Qui-gon's stomach. _You knew what would happen, Obi-wan. You are letting the Council, the Order, warp your better judgment, your better character._  Steely grey-green eyes returned his own cold stare, the upsoken tension between the two men grinding in the Force.

“The Council is requesting your presence.” Obi-wan’s voice was monotone, his expression a match for his dull words.

Spite sharpened the edge of Qui-gon's response. "I'm not sure if this is the right time to leave Ana - "

“ _Now_ , Qui-gon,” Obi-wan rubbed at his forehead, the hint of a scowl clouding his features. FIery impatience seeped through the thin veneer of Jedi stoicism. “Please. Just - just make this easy, for once.”

Anakin frowned, shrugging off Qui-gon's grip. He stood, coming nearly chest-to-chest with Obi-wan, glaring vibroblades in his direction. Obi-wan crossed his arms, raising a single eyebrow. Whatever the silent conversation was, it ended with Anakin shaking his head in defeat. 

“Fine. Later,” Anakin snapped, leaving the room in a blur of tunics, not sparing a single word or glance for a goodbye.

Obi-wan stared after his former student, wrapping his arm around his abdomen, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand, face lined with tension. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long sigh, allowing his body to empty of oxygen completely. He then took a noisy inhale through his nose, opening his eyes and gesturing towards the door as if the moment had never happened. “Master Jinn, if you would?”

Qui-gon pulled on his boots in two swift movements. He stood, adjusting the hem of his shirt. 

"As you wish, Master Kenobi," he rumbled at the floor, striding past Obi-wan into the empty Temple hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this chapter went from somewhat humorous, to way over-the-top angsty, to...whatever it's settled into here. So. Many. Rewrites. *bashes head on coffee table*
> 
> I promise there are actual plot points in here. and that we will, indeed, leave Coruscant by Chapter 7. Next chapter will kind of round out Act I and there are a few things I've mentioned here that will become important later. Next chapter will be a little lighter. I think. But you know, Qui-gon and Obi-wan are going to chat again, so that always gets a bit charged.
> 
> Also, don't fear. I haven't forgotten about Ahsoka - she'll be back soon, along with the clones. I also think I now have a vague idea of how this will end, which is exciting. More characters to be added, more lineage feels to be had. :o
> 
> I was kind of imagining the Temple Guards pulling a TSA with the Naboo fruitcakes, confiscating all these prohibited objects and then taking them back to the office for distribution. Enjoy the pastries, you guys. (I'm still mad about the time I had my hot sauce swiped in Palm Springs.)
> 
> I'm kind of excited for the next chapter. Qui-gon is going to stir the pot, as he is so good at, and Obi-wan's ulcer is going to grow 5 sizes in response. Off to the Council we go!
> 
> As always, you can come flail with me on Tumblr: [@legobiwan](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) for Star Wars stuff, musician bullshit, and cats or [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/) for MCU mischief-making and snakes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT. HERE WE GO.
> 
> Qui-gon and Obi-wan get to talk. But not before a somewhat contentious Council meeting.

The Council room was exactly as he remembered it. 

Large windows stretched long on the walls, nearly twice Qui-gon’s height. Coruscant glimmered, its bright lights glistening against the opaque night sky, throwing off the dark shadow of the war with its insistent, vibrant energy, with its life.

Inside, twelve red chairs of varying sizes and shapes formed an open circle along the edges of the room. Qui-gon stood at the nexus of this arrangement, his feet planted between the leaves of a large fern pattern embedded in the floor. 

The stares of the others were oppressive, to say the least. None more so than his own Padawan’s, who regarded him with the same blank expression he had seen plastered on every other member of this body for over thirty years.

Qui-gon averted his gaze, taking stock of this new iteration of the High Jedi Council.

To be frank, it wasn't all that new, as many of the same faces - perhaps more wrinkled, more drawn - greeted him. There was Master Yoda, of course, and Mace Windu. Stass Allie sat in the far corner while Oppo Rancisis folded his arms across his chest, peering at Qui-gon through heavy-lidded eyes, his tail flicking in characteristic annoyance. 

There were a few unfamiliar faces wavering via holotramsission - a cheery-looking Nautolan, a Togruta female, and an Ongree who seemed as if he almost blended into the walls behind him, so unremarkable was he at first sight. But what caught Qui-gon’s attention was not the new faces, or even the majority of old faces, but rather, the number of Jedi Masters who weren’t present on Coruscant, opting to appear via hologram. 

That, and the conspicuously empty seat between Saesee Tiin and Oppo Rancisis. 

“Forgive me for asking, Masters, but there seems to be a high percentage of the Council not present on Coruscant. Should this be cause for concern?” Qui-gon asked. 

“There is a war on, as we assume you have heard at this point,” the reserved Togruta spoke, her voice distorted by static that almost sounded like waves crashing against the beach. 

“Master Ti is correct,” Ki-Adi Mundi added, his brow more wrinkled, voice more hardened than Qui-gon had remembered. “The Separatists are pushing forward, and with the new complication of Mandalore’s civil war, we have been forced to increase our deployments.”

“Should we be telling him this?” an unfamiliar voice questioned from the corner.

“It’s not like he wouldn’t figure it out from the Holonet,” the Nautolan Jedi answered, his seemingly natural geniality tempering in the midst of the rising argument.

“Yes, but that’s exactly why we restricted access - “

“And if he’s in accordance with the Sith,” Obi-wan interrupted, his eyes narrowing in the direction of Oppo Rancisis, “he’ll know this already. Might I suggest we focus our efforts on the matter at hand?”

“Which is what, exactly?” Qui-gon flung an arm to his side, the few remains of his patience already wearing under the Council's collective judgment. 

“Called you here, we did.” The familiar voice, its swapped, sometimes incoherent grammar - brought back a million memories from a life past. “So in front of the full council, the matter of your innocence we would make official,” Yoda said, his clawed hands perched on his lap.

“Feel, I do, you are no Sith. But discord, there is, regarding your return. A unified voice in this matter," Yoda peered at each Council member in turn, his expression turning severe, "we must have.” 

“And for good reason," Mace Windu continued. "We have seen too much betrayal in this war. Those we thought allies now enemies. Even those we considered closest to us.”

Yoda flitted his eyes closed, bowing his head in reluctant agreement. 

Mace's eyes found Qui-gon’s own. “We would like to hear your account your miraculous return, Qui-gon.”

All eyes turned on him - probing, peering at both his physical form and his Force presence. Qui-gon met their gazes - supportive, inquisitive, and skeptical.

The Jedi felt a sudden sympathy for the animals kept at the Coruscant Zoo.

Reaching out to the Force for stability, he filled his lungs, pressing down on those anxieties threatening to claw up from his very intestines.  _This_ was why he never enjoyed being summoned in front of the Council. It was like wearing an ill-fitting tunic - tight in the shoulders, not broad enough in the chest, constricting his ability to breathe, to move - to just _be_. So steeped in protocol, in rules, was the Council, so restrained in expressing opinions, expressing most anything - 

Qui-gon had been passed over for Council membership, more than once. Never in his sixty-plus years had he felt an iota of bitterness, of remorse over that fact.

_But clearly others didn't feel the same way_ , he thought, as Qui-gon's gaze flitted over to Obi-wan, who had his ankle perched at a jaunty angle atop his opposite knee. His elbows were set on the wide, plush chair arms, fingers folded in front of his mouth, index fingers extended upwards, resting just beneath his nose.

A Council member. At his age. It was nearly incomprehensible to Qui-gon. What had Obi-wan done - or not done - to be appointed to the venerated Jedi body so quickly?

“Well,” Qui-gon cleared his throat, shifting back and forth on his feet, "as you all know, I died on Naboo, ten years ago, during an encounter with the being I am now informed is named Maul. I must admit, there is little I remember about the exact circumstances of my death, and little more I remember from my journey to this second life.”

The Force trembled, a single wave in a vast ocean. The Council, following its trail, landed its eyes on Obi-wan, who had gone as rigid as the bronzium statues in the Temple antechambers. 

Qui-gon pursed his lips. “Death was…peaceful, I suppose. A return to the Force, to those base elements which make up life, the galaxy.”

“And then?” Mace Windu leaned forward, anticipation playing at the edges of his consonants, like a bite into a crisp apple. 

“I don’t know,” Qui-gon shrugged. “All I can recall was a sensation. The feeling of being stretched, until I felt my essence - my cells, even the midichlorians which flow through my blood and body - until they expanded so far they encompassed galaxies. And then there was a light.” Qui-gon frowned, tensing at the memory. “And pain. One minute I could feel the edges of the universe and the next I was constrained in this tiny ball, no larger than the palm of your hand, Master Yoda.”

Yoda hummed at the statement, but made no comment. 

“And then," Qui-gon continued, "I awoke in a warehouse. Cold and confused. And very much alive.”

Saesee Tiin furrowed his large brows. “A warehouse?”

Qui-gon turned in his direction. “Yes, the Works, to be specific. A place that, I most likely don’t need to remind you all, has known great horrors - great pain and suffering. It was not the welcome I would have planned for myself if I had known I was to return.”

What had been a muted dissonance of grumbling began to crescendo, the Force meeting the discord with choppy, ragged reverberations. But there was no point in prevaricating here. Qui-gon was as lost as the Council as to the exact mechanics of his resurrection. He hoped the truth - or at least, the truth from a certain point of view, might elicit some form of insight. 

“Not a place one would want to find themselves. A nexus of the Dark Side, it has been as of recent,” commented the gravelly voice belonging to Oppo Rancisis.

_Force give me patience_ , Qui-gon sighed, casting his gaze to the tall ceiling. “Yes, well, it was not the most pleasant of awakenings, I can assure you,” he answered, letting his eyes settle on the conservative Jedi Master. 

“And after, Qui-gon?” 

“Well,”he played with his fingers behind his back. “I left the warehouse, not wanting to spend any more time in that tainted environment. As I mentioned earlier, I sensed something…familiar. Some have told me it would be impossible - that Obi-wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka would not have been known to my senses, for a variety of reasons I am not sure I fully believe. But whatever the mechanism, the Force spoke to me, and I followed.”

_You, Padawan. I sensed *you* underneath all those layers, buried in those Jedi tunics, in that facade you wear so easily._

Obi-wan’s brows crinkled. Qui-gon let his stare settle on his student a second too long before whipping around to address Mace and Yoda. 

“I met with Anakin, Ahsoka,” Qui-gon gestured to his side, “and Obi-wan. And the rest, is…well, I believe you know the rest. I returned to the Temple, to Obi-wan’s quarters, and was immediately branded a Sith plot and held under guard with - “ Qui-gon floated a particularly nasty look towards his former student, “ - a so-called security detail, armed with _Force pikes_.” The end of his statement threatened to crash through the floor with the weight of his condemnation.

“A necessary precaution,” Mace countered, his face the picture of restrained calm. 

Qui-gon's eyebrows shot upwards. “Oh yes, Force forbid Anakin try and bring me a box of pastries. Who knows what diabolical Sith plots I could have hatched from a _shuura_ turnover. Or perhaps I was planning on communing with Dooku through milk-custard filling.” 

“Master Jinn - “

The acerbic laugh burnt up his throat. “Oh am I ‘Master Jinn’, now, not ‘Prisoner Jinn?’”

Someone sighed behind him. “That’s not what we were - “

But Qui-gon’s patience had run its course, adrenaline, outrage, and fatigue coming together, the perfect trifecta of ill-conceived outbursts. “And how many more so-called “dark Jedi” do you have locked away in the bowels of the Temple - “

“Qui-gon!” 

The rebuke echoed through the chamber. Uneasy silence churned between the Jedi.

“Please.” Obi-wan half-ordered, half-pleaded, a single eyebrow in Qui-gon’s direction. It was a mirror of the look he had given Anakin before the younger man had stormed from their quarters. 

Qui-gon shifted, adjusting his pants, then the hem of his too-short tunic. “My apologies to the Council,” he found himself saying, not quite believing his own words. “I fear knowledge of some of the events of this so-called war have..disturbed my equilibrium.” 

“Much more to learn, you have, Qui-gon. The war - much, in your absence, has happened," Yoda said, his eyes not leaving Qui-gon's.

“I will endeavor to meditate upon this later.”

_ If I don’t talk myself into shackles by the end of this meeting, that is.  _

“Obi-wan, would you care to continue from this point?”

“Yes, well,” Obi-wan brought his hands to rest on - grip, really, judging from the white of his fingernails - the arms of his chair. “Encountering Master Jinn alive was…a shock. None of us were prepared for it, myself least of all, and I will admit to having a somewhat…severe reaction to his sudden reappearance.”

Qui-gon stepped forward. “He fell dreadfully ill. Overstress. Probably lack of food.” 

The murderous glare Qui-gon received in return left all further comments on the matter stuck uncomfortably in his throat.

“That was when I sent Anakin and Ahsoka to the Temple. Ahsoka returned with a speeder to retrieve me and Master Jinn, and Anakin, I suppose, went to inform you,” Obi-wan concluded, his grip intensifying on the poor chair.

“And is that also how you came to sport that lovely looking bruise on your cheek?” Mace asked, gesturing towards Qui-gon. 

_Oh._ Qui-gon put his fingers to his face where Obi-wan had punched him.  He pressed at the soft area under his eye. Dull pain radiated from where the solid fist had landed. Qui-gon flitted eyes over to Obi-wan, who gave no reaction, save a subtle pawing at the chair arm.

“I - “ Qui-gon stammered. “I didn’t even notice it, to be honest.”

“And that’s because he arrived looking that way,” Obi-wan supplemented. “Battered, bedraggled - worse than usual.” Qui-gon did a double-take. _That was uncalled for, Padawan._ “I suppose his return from the dead was more of a…” Obi-wan made an airy gesture, “wild variety-park ride rather than a pleasant stroll through the gardens.”

Qui-gon had to nearly pick his jaw off the ground. Obi-wan, _his_ Obi-wan - was lying to the Council?

_Although I suppose he has enough experience these days_ , a dark voice in the back of Qui-gon’s head murmured. _Remember what Anakin told you about Rako Hardeen._

“And feeling better, are you, Master Kenobi?” Yoda asked, the edge of his Force presence humming, nipping at the edges of Qui-gon's own shielding, almost as if in play if not for the serious power behind the movements.

‘“I’ll live,” came Obi-wan's deadpan, practiced answer.

Mace Windu leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Well, at least your stories align. And from it, the Council can assume Qui-gon aided Obi-wan with no ill intent. Knight Skywalker and Padawan Tano already vouch for this man. But...we would like a confirmation, a...' Mace gestured in that vaguely threatening way of his that brokered no room for argument. "Let's call it a demonstration from one who knew him best.”

Yoda turned to Obi-wan. “ _Feel_ , like your old master, does he - Obi-wan?”

Obi-wan’s face went wide, the first indication of emotion he had shown since entering the Council chambers. Those grey-green-blue eyes - Qui-gon remembered teasing his student about his eye color, how it never seemed to settle, how it was ever-changing, one of the few places the curtain slipped and one could see past the facade of the boy - the man - Obi-wan Kenobi was. And now…

Qu-gon saw fear trembling in his cornea. Pain glistening in the iris. And perhaps buried underneath all of that, the slightest glimmer of hope in that dark, almost inscrutable pupil. As Obi-wan stood, Qui-gon came still, ceasing any small movement, any fidgeting, the subtle rocking of his heels coming to a smooth stop. The younger man drew a long breath, reaching out an arm as he closed his eyes. 

It was like stepping back into the shower, the same one from earlier, which had held the promise of at least temporary relief. But this time it was cold, almost icy. Qui-gon shivered, the unrelenting curtain of energy splashing down on him, gradually warming to a tolerable, then even enjoyable temperature. He relished in the comfort, the thick, durable wall of support that was Obi-wan’s Unifying Force presence

A small tremor made its way to Qui-gon’s awareness, traveling down a long forgotten-path forged by both men years ago.

_/Obi-wan?/_ he called over the Force-bond.

The gelatinous comfort vanished. Qui-gon fell through nothing, crashing down into the harsh reality where he stood, wavering, in front of the Council. Obi-wan was before him, hand outstretched, breaths shallow, visible in the tremulous movements of his chest, his skin pulsing, nearly trying to burst through his neck.

Qui-gon staggered backward. Somehow, in this instant, the years had fallen away. The person before him was not High Councillor and Jedi Master Kenobi, but rather the twelve-year-old boy who was flush from his victory over Bruck Chun in the training hall, his face collapsing as he was told of his fate - to be sent to Bandomeer. 

If he could do it again, if he could change the past, if somehow - 

But the moment was over, the curtain falling on a play long finished. Initiate Kenobi disappeared as Councillor and Jedi Master Kenobi stepped into his place. 

“To the best of my knowledge,” Obi-wan’s voice cut through the last of the veil. “The man who stands before you is Qui-gon Jinn.”

Yoda hummed, surveying the rest of the Council with his penetrating stare.

“Questions? Doubts, you still have? Feel, we all did, in that moment - the truth. Master Jinn, not dark is he. But why and how he has come back…know, we do not.”

Mace leaned forward, letting out a deep sigh, rubbing at his forehead. 

“The more pressing question is what to do with you. You’re not a general. You’ve been away for many years. The galaxy is different - more dangerous. A dark cloud hangs over us all."

Qui-gon smiled. “You could always lock me up and throw away the key. Seems to have worked so far.”

“Qui-gon.” The sharp retort, of course, came from Obi-wan, who glared in warning before turning to address the full Council. “We are most decidedly _not_ doing what Master Jinn has just proposed. As we discussed earlier, we cannot set this kind of precedent in the Temple.” His Padawan’s stern eyes skirted over Saesee Tiin to land on Oppo Rancisis. “No matter _how_ you believe Qui-gon returned.”

Rancisis flicked his tail, huffing. “You’re suggesting we simply restore him to Master status and leave him be?”

The corner of Obi-wan’s mouth flicked upwards. “Not quite.”

Obi-wan straightened, his demeanor relaxing and Qui-gon recognized the shift for what it was. Obi-wan was in his element, addressing the Council as if he were in one of those _Force-damned_ pods, speaking to the Galactic Senate. Despite not knowing which side his student was going to come down on, somehow Qui-gon almost felt compelled to root for the man - for his charisma, his eloquence, his turn of rhetoric. _Such a far stretch from the awkward boy I knew and yet..._

“We keep him under careful watch, but dismiss this armed contingent. There’s nothing like a pair of Jedi Sentinels following someone around to attract attention, and the last thing we need is someone outside the Temple catching wind of any miraculous resurrections.”

_ And yet, so much like the Master he never met. At least, as I knew him. _

Obi-wan paused, waiting for the full attention of the room. “Otherwise, the Order will be on the 1800 Holonews being accused of stealing children to perform dark rituals, raising the dead against the Republic government. And then one of us will be running interference with Admiral Tarkin about conscripting these supposed zombies into the GAR the next morning.”

“I think that’s a little far-fetch-“

“It’s barely less plausible than what has been masquerading as news recently. And certainly on par with what I have overheard in the Senate,” Obi-wan countered. 

Ki-Adi leaned forward, doubt playing on his foreheads. “And what if he tries to contact Dooku? What if they are in league? He is the perfect mole, and your record on attachment has not unblemished as of late, Obi-wan.”

“A matter which I will take under consideration during meditation. As Masters Yoda and Windu prescribed. But for now, I speak as a Councillor, and we must be pragmatic about our position.”

“Unfortunately,” Qui-gon interrupted, not wanting the conversation to drift towards the touchy subject of Mandalore,  _and_ feeling a little left out of a conversation that was going to determine his fate. “You are all forgetting one important variable in all of this.”

All eyes turned to stare at Qui-gon, who shrugged, holding his hands open at his sides. 

“I might not want to return to the Jedi.”

Hoth might have been more inviting at that moment. For the first time in his memory, Qui-gon had stunned the Council speechless. Even  Obi-wan was a perfect statue of exasperation, his mouth hanging slightly open, arm held in front of his body, as if in mid-argument. 

He was also a complete void in the Force. 

“I’m sorry, Qui-gon," Mace hesitated, the first to find his voice. "Did you just say you... _don’t_ want to return to the Jedi?”

Qui-gon clasped his hands behind his back, more and more certain that this was the correct move. “I’m afraid it is…complicated, Masters. Much has changed, both in the galaxy at large and right here in the Temple - even in this very room. I am uncertain I would be serving the best interests of the Force by returning to the Order.”

“Unexpected, this is, Qui-gon,” Yoda said, his eyes wider than usual. “A disappointment. And a problem. What to do with you, still uncertain.”

Unease, so similar to common indigestion, swirled in Qui-gon’s stomach. “You’ve all agreed I am no Sith. The Jedi Order has never been a prison to its members. While most stayed, some do leave and it is their right to do so.”

Qui-gon glanced across the room. Obi-wan had somehow managed to unstick himself, falling back into his chair, slinking downwards with every word Qui-gon uttered, hand plastered to his forehead.

“And the last to leave so was your former Master, who happens to be a Sith Lord and commander of an army of battle droids intent on destroying the Republic,” Ki-Adi argued. 

“Dooku is his own man and made his own decisions.”

“That does not sound like a hearty rebuke of the Sith, Qui-gon.”

Qui-gon threw his hands up, his voice rising.

“I like the Sith _not_ , but I also dislike what little I have gleaned of the Council’s actions as of late. War? Armies? Perpetrating violence to earn peace? Lying, serving the Republic instead of the Force. Putting young Knights - Padawans even - in harm’s way when you know there is a better alternative.”

A storm whirled on Mace Windu’s features. 

“We did what was necessary. And right now, Qui-gon, you are talking yourself into a lot of trouble.” Mace pointed a finger in his direction. “No, the Jedi are not jailers, that much hasn’t changed. But the galaxy has. We can’t let you just wander off. Not with the war. Not with your former Master on the rampage. Not with Darth Maul, not with this other Sith lurking in the shadows. It’s for your safety as well as ours.”

A humorless laugh erupted from Qui-gon. “I assure you Masters, I do not require protection.” 

“Oh yes, there will be very few enemies to chase you down when you are dead once again,” a sardonic voice interrupted. 

“I’ll not make the same mistakes this time, Obi-wan.”

“Only you would say -”

“Gentlemen!” Mace’s rebuke halted any further argument. “I think that is enough! Qui-gon, we trust you, but we do not trust the way in which you came back. So until further notice, you are a long-term guest of the Council." Mace turned to Obi-wan, whose features were still stuck somewhere between complete horror and extreme annoyance. “Master Kenobi, if you would be so kind to escort Qui-gon back to your quarters. Since you pushed so hard to house him there, he can be _your_ problem until we figure out a more permanent solution.”

Obi-wan nodded stiffly, coming to his feet. “Of course, Master Windu.”

Mace stood, walking over to Qui-gon. He placed a large hand on his shoulder with a resounding _clap_. The action stung.

Intense, brown eyes bored into his own. 

“Congratulations, Jinn. Ten years of being dead has not done anything to your ability to be a right pain in the ass.”

Qui-gon opened his mouth, argument at the ready, but there was no chance to counter Mace Windu’s words, as he found himself taken roughly by the arm and pushed out of the Council room by his former student. 

 

* * *

 

“You’re upset.”

The dotted rhythm of Obi-wan’s boots against the marble floors relaxed, the military, metric precision of heel-toe slowing to a series of disorganized shuffles, clicks, and taps before coming to a stop. 

“Upset?” Obi-wan spoke to the corridor wall, wrapping his arms around his abdomen. “Why in the galaxy would I be upset?”

“I’m sorry, Obi-wan,” Qui-gon responded for what felt was at least the hundredth time since he had come back to life. He was past knowing what he was apologizing for anymore, nearly past the point where the words held any real meaning, but the phrase seemed to be the one thing he could utter without incurring his former student’s ill-placed wrath.

“No, I’m the one who is sorry,” Obi-wan said, turning to face Qui-gon. His wraith-like pallor had lessened with the hint of red in his cheeks, the sallow, dark circles under eyes no longer bruised trenches but rather minor dents. Still, Qui-gon did not like the way Obi-wan’s hand trembled as he untucked it from his waist.

Qui-gon liked the dark, tense furrow of Obi-wan’s brow even less.

“I should have known better. I put my neck on the line for you." Obi-wan’s voice rose as he stepped forward, emphasizing his words with an open hand. “Advocated for you in that room for an hour. Believe me, Qui-gon, there were other, far less pleasant options that were discussed. Imprisonment, _real_ imprisonment. Being handed over to the military.” Obi-wan clenched a fist. “The use of a Force suppressor.”

The cold, horrifying promise of that statement tingled in Qui-gon's long limbs.

“I - I know Obi-wan, just - “

Obi-wan’s eyes went wide as moons.

“ _You know?_ ” Barbed incredulity laced every syllable of Obi-wan’s words. “No, you don’t know. That’s the _kriffing_ problem, Qui-gon.”

“Then why don’t you tell me, Obi-wan?” Qui-gon’s raised voice echoed down the long, empty corridor, the older Jedi’s frustration bubbling over like an unwatched pot over fire. _Force_ , this was a hundred times worse than dealing with adolescent Obi-wan. The adult version of his former student seemed to have perfected the art of being an _obdurate ass_. 

“You’ve been upset, you’ve been angry. I’ve tried to give you space, I’ve tried apologizing - multiple times over, mind you - and yet you will barely tell me why.” Qui-gon paused, looking to the side as he let out an extended, noisy exhale that pretended to cover a juvenile groan of complaint. Long fingers picked at the patterns etched into the wall beside him - geometric shapes, like a series of holocrons stacked upon the other. Qui-gon thought it might be a nice life, to be a holocron etched into the wall of the Jedi Temple. 

“I am many things, but not a mind reader, Padawan.”

“I’m not your Padawan.”

Qui-gon quirked his head in Obi-wan’s direction. 

“You were.”

An undignified snort sounded from the younger man, whose mouth contorted into a cynical, crooked smile. “Oh yes, until you shoved me aside when something better came along.”

Qui-gon recoiled, as if stung. A million questions begged to be asked, but the older man could not find the will to summon the words, his features stuck like a speeder gear, between confusion and outrage. 

_Don’t keep that expression too long,_ Master Dooku’s deep baritone echoed in his memories. _Madame Nu just might pour bronzium over you and place you in the Jedi Archives with those other hideous trophies._

“And now I go out of my way to make accommodations for you. Excuses. Lie to the Council just so you can stand in front of them and stomp all over my good intentions. And for what? So you can become the Lost Twenty-first?” Obi-wan cocked an eyebrow, taking his chin in hand in an overstated gesture of contemplation. “Doesn’t have quite the same _cachet_ as the ‘Lost Twenty.’ Dooku will be disappointed.”

Stretched of patience, Qui-gon rolled his eyes, gesturing to the ceiling, bringing one hand to his side with a _clap._

“This,” Qui-gon made a large, circular gesture with his other arm that encompassed the corridor, “isn’t all about you, Obi-wan.”

“It rarely is,” the younger man muttered, any previous venom now strangely absent from his words.

Robbed of any further retorts, Qui-gon padded a few strides down the hallway. He considered the abstract oil painting on the wall, the fine filigree of the architecture before sitting down on a backless bench that overlooked the main entrance to the Jedi Temple with an unceremonious _thud_. The large window was open, the smell of speeder exhaust, of street food, of garbage left out too long - of _life -_ greeting Qui-gon’s senses. _This_ was the Living Force, the movements of each being that walked the promenade, that sped by in their vehicle, that…Qui-gon frowned. That marched up the main avenue with a large-spec blaster rifle. 

The glittering evening scene warped as in a nightmare. Qui-gon squinted his eyes, supplementing his vision with the Force.

His stomach tensed. Where he had seen rows of colorful street lights before there were now military checkpoints, surveillance droids hovering above a Gree mother and her child, who hugged the mother’s leg, wiping his tears on her long skirts. Barricades in the form of ray shields peppered the perimeter of the Temple District, their eerie red glow bathing alleyways in a menacing crimson shadow. Qui-gon reached out with the Force again, this time pushing past the curtain, the pretense of normalcy, into the very heart of Coruscant’s collective consciousness. 

He started as a single cold, unnatural tendril climbed up his spine. 

Something was deeply _wrong_.

The approach of another being shook Qui-gon from his dark meditation, the bright, vibrating presence chasing all hint of shadow away as the awful, slippery sensation along his back receded. Obi-wan settled on the bench, careful to keep an appropriate distance from his once-Master. The younger man placed his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward, peering at Coruscant’s spoiled skyline through the short pillars of the balcony fence. 

“Why Qui-gon? Why try to leave now?”

Why? Did Obi-wan not see? Could he not discern this false city, this conflict that had grown like a poisonous weed in the very shadow of the Jedi Temple itself?

“Look at the state of the galaxy, Obi-wan!” Qui-gon exclaimed, gesturing towards the glistening city. “I spoke the truth in the Council room. You fight as soldiers for a government that you even admit does not trust you. For a Republic that, from all that I have heard, is a shell of its former self. Even when I lived, the Council would have never allowed Mandalore to happen. There is a time for politics, and then there is a time to do what is right. I fear the Council has lost sight of this.”

Obi-wan’s head drooped, the weight of the galaxy seeming to settle on his shoulders. 

“We cannot save everyone, Qui-gon,” he nearly whispered, his voice raspy. Obi-wan craned his neck so his red-rimmed eyes met Qui-gon’s. “Or do you not remember a young Padawan on Melida/Daan who tried to do exactly that?”

Air rushed from Qui-gon’s lungs, passing through his lips with a low, rumbling trill. He leaned forward, mirroring Obi-wan’s posture, elbows on knees, back hunched. Qui-gon clasped his large hands together, his palms sticking to each other as he fidgeted with his fingers.

“I was wrong to leave you, Obi-wan,” Qui-gon spoke to his hands. They were showing signs of wrinkles, of light brown liver spots that would have darkened with age. He wondered if his body would decline at the same rate now, if the aging process would change with his strange return to life. 

“I can admit that now. And I do apologize. But - “

Obi-wan’s head whipped upwards.

“Look at what the Jedi have become,” Qui-gon nearly pleaded, keeping his voice low. “Political expedience. War room meetings. Violence to bring peace. We are disavowing ourselves, our ideals, selling out to the highest bidder.”

A hollow laugh served as a response. “You sound like Dooku.”

Qui-gon raised both arms to his side in an open motion. “Well, maybe Dooku has a point! I question his methods, but he was not wrong to leave the Order, if this is what it has come to.” Qui-gon’s eyes flitted to the Coruscant skyline. “Obi-wan, I know you can feel it. We are surrounded by lies and deceit, and the Council only seems to encourage this behavior.”

Obi-wan leapt to his feet, pacing the length of the window. He played with his beard with one hand, his other hand behind his back, manipulating some kind of invisible ball. A minute, two minutes passed, and finally, Obi-wan came to a stop, leaning against the balcony rail, one leg slung over the other in a gesture of false ease. Obi-wan looked down on the still-seated form of his old Master.

“Qui-gon, I - “ he let out a huff. “My duty is to the Republic. To the Council. To the Jedi Order. If we all just ran off according to the will of the Force, nothing would ever get done. We’d be a band of vigilantes, barely better than bounty hunters - lawless, only adhering to our own code, to our own interpretations of the Force. And that is exactly what many in the Republic fear.”

Obi-wan grabbed at his eyes, massaging the tender tissue with a disturbing intensity.

“You have no idea the political pressure the Council is under," he breathed. "We can’t just abandon the Republic as darkness descends on us. We cannot shirk in our duty, no matter how unpalatable.”

“On that, I agree, Obi-wan, but there has to be a better way.”

Obi-wan rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you know that way.”

“I don’t, but I would like the freedom to find it.”

Oppressive frustration mounted in the Force, like tectonic plates before an eruption, their energy shivering, waiting for release. 

“This is _so_ you,” Obi-wan accused, running his hand through his hair. “The will of the Force. Prophecies. Chosen ones. Maybe for once you can think about the effect your actions have on others, Qui-gon!”

“And maybe you should, too, Obi-wan!” Qui-gon snapped. “The Council’s way - your way - is no better than mine. Anakin told me about Rako Hardeen.”

The Force plunged, hitting the ground with a series of sickening seismic reverberations that nearly knocked Qui-gon off his seat. Obi-wan was frozen in place, his eyes settling in an icy blue that threatened to vivisect Qui-gon on the spot. 

“It was a mistake,” he said, each syllable deliberate, drawn out in an almost too-perfect enunciation in that proper Core accent Qui-gon knew too well. “Paid for several times over.”

Obi-wan’s gaze fell to the floor as the Force settled into a muted echo, its surface placid but its deep currents still unsettled, churning.

_ Who are you, Obi-wan? I don’t know you anymore, you’ve become this alien, this other being. And while I see some of the boy I trained in there, so much of you has changed and I don’t know what to do with this new person. _

A shadow of his thoughts must have leaked through the Force, as Obi-wan raised his head, giving Qui-gon a cheerless smile.Recognizing it for the peace offering that it was, the older Jedi sat back down on the bench, patting the surface next to him in invitation. Obi-wan tensed, eyeing the spot warily before letting out a soft sigh, accepting the proffered spot.

“If it’s any consolation,” Obi-wan began, “I did not agree with the Council’s plan. Argued with them, actually. Vociferously. I thought Master Windu was going to chuck me out the window at one point. But…in the end, I…I felt I had no choice.”

Obi-wan rubbed his forehead, slumping. He was the perfect picture of misery.

“I lost Anakin in that mission, Qui-gon. And I don’t think I’ll ever, truly get him back. If I even had him to begin with. After all, an entire relationship, one that I didn’t even want at first…“

Confusion furrowed Qui-gon’s brow. “Sometimes, we do not always choose the Padawan. The Padawan chooses us. It is - and I know you don’t want to hear this - but it _is_ the will of the Force, Obi-wan.” 

“Oh, but you don’t remember, do you?”

Qui-gon quirked an eyebrow.

“Your dying words,” Obi-wan sighed. “If you must know - and I’m certain you're going to ask anyway, so I’ll save some other poor soul the trouble. You were stabbed, through the abdomen, with Maul’s lightsaber.” The Force rumbled, heat rising from deep vents at its floor, portentous bubbles swimming to the surface. 

“Only Maul’s hubris allowed for the moment where I was able to cut him in half, sending the two parts of his body careening down the reactor shaft. Not even to his death, as it turned out.”

Images, flashes of memory pricked at Qui-gon’s brain. Red. The Sith, with his yellow, sickly eyes. Pain, deep and throbbing, searing through his gut. The certainty of death, which would have been a welcome release if not for the knowledge his Padawan was still in danger.

“Anyway,” Obi-wan waved a hand, “I rushed to your side. Held you in my arms as I felt our bond slip, thread by agonizing thread. You looked at me and - “ Qui-gon’s heart wrenched as Obi-wan’s voice broke. “You asked me - begged me, really - to train him. 'Promise me, Obi-wan, you’ll train the boy.'”

Obi-wan gulped. “And then you died. I - I don’t remember the rest, really. You had a communicator in your tool belt. I called Master Windu. They came. A while later, I suppose.”

“You sat with my body?” Qui-gon breathed, disbelieving.

“Where else was I going to go?”

Despair threatened to pull Qui-gon under.

“Don't fret, Qui-gon. I trained him as well as I could. But Anakin was - and remains - reckless and impatient. Prone to attachment.”

Obi-wan placed both hands behind him, leaning back in a straight line, legs stretching before him. His eyes stared past the ceiling of the antechamber, past the confines of the capital, into space itself, and from there - to possibility. 

And regret.

“Just like his Master.”

A series of high-pitched tones shook Obi-wan from his maudlin reverie. He glanced at the communicator at his wrist, scowling.

“Duty calls,” he said, a hint of characteristic wryness in his voice and he pressed a button. “Kenobi here…” The rest of the conversation was lost as Obi-wan disappeared into an adjacent storeroom.

_ And despite all this, you still don’t trust me enough to let me in on your transmissions?  _

But that bitterness had no place, and Qui-gon banished the feeling along with an array of others. He would have to deal with them, would have to deal with everything, really. 

But later. After he had made some sense of this new universe.

The new universe where Obi-wan was a Council member, where Anakin was a full-fledged Knight, where war ran rampant, where Dooku had -

Obi-wan emerged from the room, nearly bouncing on his heels. “Damn. It’s Grievous,” he snarled.

“Who’s Grievous?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Obi-wan answered, striding down an adjacent hallway with renewed purpose that skirted a little too close to revenge for Qui-gon’s tastes. The older Jedi jogged to catch up. 

“On the way _where_?”

“You, me, Anakin, and Ahsoka. We’re leaving in half an hour.”

Qui-gon stopped mid-stride, gaping at his student, who had seemingly entered a storage room only to undergo some miraculous transformation from maudlin Jedi to someone resembling those awful guards outside the Temple District. The comparison rubbed raw and Qui-gon’s stomach churned. 

“I thought I was being imprisoned?” he shouted down the corridor at Obi-wan’s back.

“You are. With me.” Obi-wan finally halted, turning to face Qui-gon with his hands on his hips, foot tapping an erratic rhythm on the plush carpet. “The Council doesn’t have the resources to deal with this. But I refuse to leave you here where you actually might be imprisoned, as much as it might give me some small degree of satisfaction. And to be honest, the further you are from Coruscant, the less chance anyone outside the Temple will catch wind of your return.”

Obi-wan turned on heel, halting after a handful of steps.

“Besides,” he called behind his back. “I don’t trust you on your own. Force knows what you would get into left unattended. At least on the cruiser, I know Cody and his men will keep tabs on you.”

_ Well, wasn’t that insulting. _

Qui-gon padded up the hallway until he came even with his student, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“You know, Obi-wan, you can still let me go.”

And there it was. That friction, that movement in the Force that began in the deepest, most hidden basins, whose movements weren't even noticeable until their repercussions had reached the surface, a thousand times worse than when they started. Obi-wan’s shoulders tensed as a let out a long sigh.

“That’s the problem, Qui-gon.” 

Grey-green eyes met Qui-gon’s own as a tentative hand landed on his own shoulder.

“I can’t. No matter how hard I try.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NOOOOOO
> 
> The gang is going on the road! Have I mentioned Qui-gon knows NOTHING about the clones yet? And Obi-wan might have possibly "forgotten" to mention that and a few other things? (cue diminished 7th chord on a Hammond Organ radio-drama style)
> 
> Ahsoka will be back! And we might get an update from Camp Dooku in there as well.
> 
> Btw, I totally forgot to mention in the notes last chapter, but a lot of the mysterious Dooku/Sidious writing is based off some scenes in "Darth Plagueis," which is an awesome book if you're into political thrillers + Force users. 
> 
> I was totally beginning to channel Nick Fury for the Mace stuff here. Crooooooosover!!!!!! But no, could you imagine Mace Windu and Nick Fury, running some weirdass combo squad of Jedi and SHIELD (with some random Avengers/Asgardians thrown in the mix)? I'd pay to see that. (I've been watching A LOT of Agents of SHIELD recently, so forgive me.)
> 
> As always, come say hi on tumblr at the Friendly Lego Compound [@legobiwan](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) or at the Lair of Mischievous Snakes [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Cody, all the time. 
> 
> This chapter is kind of slow, but I needed to get everyone off Coruscant and give the clones some well-deserved stage time. Plus, it's always fun to delve into Cody's characterization and the antics the vod will get up to on the ship.

"The reason,” the Senator had wrapped a heavy arm around Cody’s shoulders, the bright pink contents of his cocktail glass splashing over the edge.

“The reason,” he repeated,  _sotto voce_ , sour breath wafting into Cody’s senses as the Rodian Senator leaned into the clone's side. “The Jedi do so well in this war, is that war is chaos. And the Jedi - and by extension -  _you -_ “ A knobby finger prodded at the vod’s chest. “Practice chaos on a daily basis.”

Cody hadn’t been too fond of the comparison, nor had he been a fan of the drunken Senator intent on “getting to know the brave men defending our freedoms.” It had been a miracle (or another example of the Jedi’s strange, precognizant powers) that General Kenobi had shown up when he did, gently prying the intoxicated politician from Cody’s body, limb by octopine limb.

Still, the statement, much like Senator, had stuck with Cody. The vods were bred for the utmost efficiency, were supposedly the pinnacle of sentient engineering, and yet to look at the spectacle unfolding before him, through an outsider’s eyes - he had to admit that chaos was perhaps not an inaccurate description.

Lifts on both sides of the landing bay bobbed up and down in halting syncopation, discharging men and machines in erratic, accelerating metallic staccato. On the far side of the wide expanse, several dozen vod oversaw the construction of a small metropolis of cargo boxes, a mini-Coruscant of durasteel and plastic, shivering in the cold illumination of the ship’s false suns.

The whirr of astromech droids scuttling from to ship to ship, tittering at imperfections only known to them barely outmatched the sweet scent of oil that trailed them, leaving a slick pathway of ooze reminiscent of a Hutt in the desert. It  _was_  chaos, from a certain point of view. An assault on the senses, nearly overwhelming in its totality.

And yet, for Cody, it was a perfect patchwork; a meticulous, multi-threaded braid that lifted, pulled, and swung in impeccable rhythm with the heavy footsteps of his men, with their raucous hymns sung in stanzas of shouts and orders, each voice familiar as his own, yet distinctive, carrying some experience, some aspect of being that belonged to that individual clone alone.

War, battle - it was a terrible thing. But there was a certain beauty in its preparation, a synergy of meaning, of purpose met in the clangor of the hangar bay in the rough tuplets of boots against durasteel. Few, if any, outside the vod felt that call, although more than one  _vod_  suspected some of the Jedi experienced a similar battle-lust, even if they would never admit to it.

Cody wondered if this new Jedi would be similar to General Kenobi in that regard. There was limited information about the new addition to the 212th in the terse report - apparently they were unknown to the vod, would be joining the men in a non-fighting capacity, and were to be kept under, in the General’s words, "casual observation."

Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

A new Padawan? Someone like the Commander, except younger? Cody figured there could be no other explanation. While not every Jedi Master had been assigned as a General, the Order’s numbers weren’t that large and were only dwindling as the war drew on. It seemed almost impossible that a fully-trained Jedi Master could be kept from the war effort for an entire two years. 

Then again, the Jedi did seem to specialize in the impossible.

Cody stashed the mini-datapad with Obi-wan's message into his utility belt, peering down the long loading ramp. One of the new shinies was frantically gesturing toward the hangar bay, his eyes skitting over to a long-haired, stony face every few steps.

_Well, I'll be a bantha's ba'vodu._  Not a Padawan. Not even close. Cody pegged the newcomer as being about fifteen years older than General Kenobi, although the combination of deep lines etched near his eyes and on his forehead and the occasional flash of silver in his hair suggested he could be even older.  _Cerar_  was the only apt description that came to mind, like that lonely, rugged crag he had seen in the distance on a mission to Ryloth. The man frowned as he and the shiny came to stop a few steps from Cody, crossing long arms over his chest, surveying the busy hangar bay with narrowed eyes. 

“Welcome aboard, General!” The young clone's voice cracked in nervous exhilaration as he bounced on his toes, like an over-eager Akk pup.

The man shook his head, displeasure evident in his voice. “I am no General. And I would appreciate it if you did not refer to me as such.”

The shiny's eyes widened at the rebuke, his mouth opening and closing as if he were gnawing on a large wad of  _chewstim_. Cody practically saw the calculations spelling out over his head, as the Jedi barreled straight through countless hours of military protocol impressed into the shiny's brain on Kamino.  _Better get used to it, kid_ , Cody thought, remembering his own confusing first days on mission with General Kenobi. The cadet, not knowing what else to do, scrambled to attention, snapping off one of the crispest salutes Cody had ever seen. 

“Yes, sir!”

The Jedi extended his arms, trying to halt this impromptu, unofficial initiation in the GAR. “Wait no, that’s not what I - “

A few quick strides brought Cody to the shiny’s side. “Stand down, cadet,” he murmured in the young vod’s ear, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you help the boys with the artillery?” Cody pointed at a far corner of the bay, where a group of clones was navigating a set of large, silver cargo boxes into a ground fighter.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The words had barely left the cadet’s mouth before he bolted in the direction of his brothers, casting one last confused glance back at the strange, tall man.

Cody shook his head, bringing his hands behind his back in parade rest. It  _was_  a rather strange reaction, and Cody couldn't fully blame the cadet for his confusion. The man was old enough to that he ought to be a Jedi Master, and all Jedi Masters, with few exceptions, were Generals.

So why had he balked at the title?  

“I suppose I rather frightened him," the Jedi said after a few moments, still watching the shiny as he joined a group of cadets circling around a shipment of detonators like a pack of hungry Skeerwolves **.  **" You will have to forgive me," he turned to meet Cody's gaze. "That was not my intention.”

“Cadets don’t react well to deviations from protocol, sir. That one hasn’t had enough field time to adapt to…” Cody searched for a politic phrase to describe the Jedi's unconventional arrival. 

"Surprises?” the man offered, cocking a wry eyebrow in a manner eerily reminiscent of General Kenobi. "In my experience, there is  _never_  enough time. One can only adust, and live in the here and now."

_Well, he certainly talks like a Jedi Master_ , Cody thought, making a noncommittal hum of acknowledgment as he shifted on the balls of his feet. 

Across the hangar bay, a group of  _vod_  worked at piling a stack of pallets in a familiar pattern of  _load, lock, lift_  that made up the simple poetry of inventory onboarding. The Jedi watched the men with utmost fascination, the same way General Skywalker viewed pod racing holodramas, and General Kenobi his many datapads on Galactic history. The pile teetered with the addition of a final pallet, rocking back and forth in dangerous rhythm until the entire structure came crashing down in metallic doscord. 

"Watch what you're doing!"

" _Haar'chak_ , I told you to the left!"

"I'll give you a left, you  _utreekov!_  A left hook!"

The rest of the confrontation was swallowed by the general din of soldiers running to reset the fallen tower of pallets. Next to Cody, the Jedi hummed, stroking his chin in thought, as a soldier from the 501st - Mastadon, Cody was pretty sure - barked a sharp order to get back to work, ending the small conflagration before it could spread. “Forgive me for asking,” the Jedi finally said, watching the two shinies trudge back to their positions with hung heads.

Qui-gon turned to face Cody once again. "I can’t help but notice the similarities between you and - “

“Master Qui-gon!” a familiar voice interrupted from the hangar’s entryway.

Commander Tano jogged up the ramp, beaming at the tall man, whose stern expression melted into a soft smile with Ahsoka's arrival.

“Is everything okay? Are you coming with us?” Where’s Obi-wan?” The questions were rapid-fire, like the rounds of a rotary blaster cannon.  Qui-gon laughed, throwing his head back as his long, brown-grey hair swung back and forth with the movement. He placed his hand on the Commander’s shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“One question at a time, young one,” Qui-gon smiled. “First of all, I am fine. And...” the man rubbed at his forehead as he watched the last of the cargo boxes being loaded into the hangar, his initial outburst of joviality tempering at the sight. “Yes, I suppose I am coming with you, although I have been told few details and know even less about all of….” Qui-gon waved his hand in a circular motion. “this. It’s quite the operation, I must say.”

And there was that hint of coldness, of stony disapproval that had sent his cadet fleeing only a few minutes ago. 

Cody couldn't think of a reason for the Jedi to be so dour towards the war, towards the clones, and yet command the respect of the Commander. Ahsoka was bobbed up and down in excitement, explaining the inner workings of a new speeder model the 501st had acquired to Qui-gon with a series of energetic gestures.

“Commander!” Fives called from across the bay. “General Skywalker wants you up on the bridge!”

“Coming!” she hollered back, turning to Qui-gon with a shrug. “Gotta go.”

But just as she made to leave, Qui-gon sidestepped the young Jedi, blocking her path. Ahsoka let out a small yelp of surprise as she nearly bowled straight into Qui-gon's midsection, her considerable Jedi reflexes bested by the older man. Cody’s hand automatically floated to his holster as Qui-gon muttered an apology. “Please wait a minute, Ahsoka.” The strain in his voice was evident, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Who is this Commander?”

Ahsoka grimaced, picking up on some hidden meaning in Qui-gon's question, her eyes darting between the Jedi and Cody.

"I am not angry at you, Ahsoka. And I am aware there is a war, and that you have - unfortunately - have a part in it." Qui-gon ran a hand over his head, distressing his hair. "But are you trying to tell me that a Jedi Padawan is now considered a military commander of rank?" the man's voice cracked in disbelief.

There was no reason for any Jedi to not know the military structure of the GAR, no reason for them not to be aware that every Padawan was considered part of the war effort. Mild irritation blossomed in Cody's chest. Who was this man and why was he here at Obi-wan's invitation?

_And just where the kriff *was* the General anyway?_

Ahsoka's comm device beeped in anxious red pulses.

“Better go, Commander,” Cody advised.

Ahsoka nodded, shooting Qui-gon an apologetic attempt at a half-smile through her obvious relief. “I’ll explain everything later. Or Obi-wan will. Or Skyguy. Don’t worry Master Qui-gon, everything’s going to be okay!” she called, backing up step by step with a frantic wave until she finally turned round to sprint across the hangar, leaving Qui-gon staring, open-mouthed, after her.

It was times like this Cody wished he had just a bit of Force ability, so he could summon Obi-wan by thought alone.  _Or give him a piece of my mind._  The General had been becoming more and more withdrawn over the past few weeks, especially after the whole Rako Hardeen incident. Cody would be lying if he said he hadn't taken that series of events to heart, that the word "betrayal" hadn't crossed his mind. But good soldiers follow orders, as the old saying went, and Cody had done his best to swallow any resentment towards the Jedi Council over their  _dini'la_  plan.

But the events of the Festival of Light had been followed closely by a mysterious coup on Mandalore, and now the presence of this unknown Jedi who couldn't even see fit to learn the basics of the GAR command structure before boarding a Republic military vessel. Cody knew the General had to keep his secrets, but it felt as if the Jedi as a whole were becoming more and more insular, their strategies more desperate, and Cody almost dreaded discovering what this newest wrinkle would mean for him and his men.

There would be no answers without the General, however, and until he received further orders, Cody was obligated to stay with this stranger until Obi-wan arrived. Constrained by his lack of supernatural abilities, Cody activated his commlink with a barely-contained sigh. He  _hated_  babysitting duty. It almost always meant small talk, and despite Cody's numerous talents on the battlefield, a smooth tongue was not among them. 

“Waxer, could you please take charge of the pre-check munitions inventory? There’s a situation I need to deal with over here.”

“Another one of General Kenobi’s surprises?” a grainy voice chuckled over the line.

Cody glanced towards Qui-gon, who regarded him with a bland, diplomatic smile.

“Something like that. Just finish up the checklist and I’ll be up with the General when he arrives.” No reason to add to the rumor mill, which was probably already spinning faster than one of General Skywalker's starfighter stunts.

“You got it, sir. Hey, do you want in on the betting pool Sawdust’s started about this new - “

“Waxer,” Cody groaned. “Munitions. Now. And tell the men to shut the gossip, or else I will personally see to it that they  _and_  you are on ‘fresher duty for the next month.”

“Yes, sir,” came the subdued response. Cody ended the transmission, allowing himself a single, ragged exhale as he contemplated new and creative punishments for his men for this latest method of entertainment bound to go awry.

Three days in orbit over Dantooine had spawned the first of an increasingly outrageous series of on-board distractions - this one an innocent-enough caf cup stacking competition. In and of itself, it had not been a terrible way to pass the time, except for the fact that some of the youger vods had turned it into a game to see how many cups could be removed before the entire structure came toppling down. Cody had banned the activity after five straight hours of clattering metallic cups falling to the floor. 

That had been shortly followed by the condiment artwork fiasco of Teth. And no, Cody hadn’t cared _how much_  Trickster had complained, after three days “on exhibition,” the entire kitchen reeked of sour Roosha topping and Cody had summarily chucked the entire gallery down the trash chute, setting it on fire as an added precaution.

The culmination of all of this had been on the return from a difficult mission on Thylot, when a group of brothers had started a sledding competition using freight corridors and tops of empty cargo boxes. Only General Kenobi’s interference had helped avert complete disaster. After a very long lecture on the virtues of personal safety, it was agreed that entertainment had to be kept to a physical minimum.

And so the unofficial 212th Betting Pool was born, an underground economy of homemade liquor and cleaning duties speculating on everything from how many times General Kenobi would stroke his beard in thought per day (the most had been seventeen) to the length of General Grievous’s…

Cody coughed into his fist. Yes, well. The point was that he was going to have to keep an eye and ear on the vod’s wagers.

"Something the matter, Commander...?" Qui-gon looked expectantly at Cody, lingering on his military title in unspoken question.

“Cody, sir. Commander Cody," the clone replied. "And no, nothing out of the ordinary."

"Except for my presence," the Jedi smiled, eyes dancing. "I take it certain wagers are being placed as to the purpose of my being here?"

_ Oh. _

Cody rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm to the touch despite the ever-present chill of the ship’s automatic cooling system. Qui-gon chuckled softly to himself. 

"It is not a criticism, Cody, only an observation. You are free to ask me any question you wish."

"I'm afraid my orders prevent that, sir." That was mostly true. At least, his orders prevented non-essential questions to non-military guests, prisoners, and suspected spies. Cody had no idea which category the man fell into, and for now, the less information he gave up, the less chance of disaster down the road.

"Well," Qui-gon deflated, finding sudden interest in a red and gold astromech weaving its way between soldiers, artillery, and heavy lifting equipment, its optical scope swinging back and forth. "Far be it from me to get in the way of the General's orders," he sighed, his lips forming a fine line as the little droid rolled towards the two men.

"But at the risk of disrupting the underground economy," the Jedi kept his eyes trained on the droid as he spoke, "allow me to attempt to put you and your men at ease." Qui-gon turned to face Cody, opening his hands. "I come bearing no grudge or ulterior motive. I suppose I am...unused to a Republic vessel being outfitted for full-scale war and not diplomacy, and I find the use of Padawans as military leaders to be troubling, at best." 

Now that was a statement Cody had no idea  _what_  to make of. It was one thing to be a pacifist, like the Duchess of Mandalore, to reject the war. It was even understandable, on some level, that someone might refuse to learn about the war, to avoid it as much as they could. But Qui-gon acted as if the war's very existence was a sudden and recent revelation. And that, Cody knew, was basically impossible. Especially for a Jedi.

The clones had once joked that the only war to escape the war's iron grip was death itself. If it weren't such a ridiculous notion, Cody might actually start to believe that this Jedi  _had_  been dead, as it was the only way, short of a long-term coma, he could be  _this_  ignorant of the state of the galaxy.

Of course, that was about as likely as Jesse's harebrained theories on time travel achieved through sonic showers.

"I also have many questions about... " Qui-gon trailed off as he fixed Cody with a sharp look, as if he were trying to peer into the clone's very DNA. Cody shifted under the intense regard, an unsettling sensation climbing through his body, like someone was drawing an icy thread through his very organs. After a moment, however, Qui-gon waved his hand in a dismissive motion, and the feeling disappeared. The Jedi bit his lip as a shadow fell over his features.

Just then, the little red and gold droid arrived at its destination, rolling up to Qui-gon, gently bumping into his leg. The Jedi smiled, shaking off his dark disposition, greeting the astromech with a pat on its dome. The Artoo unit rocked back and forth on its thrusters, beeping and whooping in short exclamations in what Cody could only guess was approval of the tall man.

"Hello, little friend. And who might you - " The thought was left unfinished as Qui-gon straightened, turning to peer down the loading ramp, some undefinable mix of emotions playing on his features.

“That would be the General, then,” Qui-gon muttered to himself.

A moment later, Cody saw them walking up the ramp. General Kenobi was brandishing a datapad in either hand, speaking with Rex and Waxer in clipped tones. The clone did a double-take as the men approached. The harsh lighting of the ship's inside never won anyone any beauty contests, but the General was looking  _haggard._

“General,” Cody greeted. 

“Ah, Cody. Good.” Obi-wan replied briskly, handing Cody one of the two datapads he had been carrying.  “I’ve made arrangements for Master Jinn’s quarters. Would you be so kind as to give him the grand tour? I’ll forward you any specific instructions to your comm.”

Cody snapped off a smart salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Please let me know when he is settled.” Obi-wan gestured to the artillery on the far side of the room. “Shall we, Rex?”

The General didn't wait for a response, setting off across the room without a single word or even a glance for his supposed "guest," red and gold droid trailing after him, rotating its head back to Cody and Qui-gon one last time as if to say goodbye.  Rex arched an eyebrow at Cody, who just whispered " _nakar'tuur"_ as his brother brushed by him in pursuit of Obi-wan.

_ Later. _

Cody glanced over at Qui-gon. He had gone a full shade paler.

“If you would, sir,” Cody pointed to a pair of automatic doors at the end of the hangar. Qui-gon gave Cody a tight smile followed by a shallow bow.

_Jedi. Always a  mystery._

“Lead the way, Cody.”

 

* * *

 

“Sir.”

The figure hunched over the wide desk straightened, pushing back a curtain of ginger hair that had fallen in front of his face, tucking the recalcitrant edges behind his ear. Obi-wan greeted Cody with a tired smile, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes folding under the strain of the expression.

The desk was a mess of flimsis, datapads, star charts, inventory sheets - and stim supplement wrappers - all scattered in some kind of indefinable pattern across the grey, durasteel surface. Behind Obi-wan was a standard bed bunk - a single, as was customary for the Jedi Generals. The blue bed sheets were in pristine condition, unwrinkled, barely-breathed upon like the whole bed had come straight out of a holo-catalogue.

Cody frowned. They had been in hyperspace for hours at this point, and the ship's chronos showed it to be just after 0600, Coruscant time.  _Not this argument again_ , the clone sighed, watching as Obi-wan had already gone back to hunching over the datapad on his desk, staring through the device as it blinked a warning message that it would soon close down due to inactivity.

“Sir?” Cody asked a little louder, wondering if the General had fallen asleep with his eyes open again. 

The question had its intended effect as Obi-wan started, staring at Cody with undisguised shock before pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He powered down the datapad with a long sigh.

“Forgive me, Cody,” the Jedi lifted his head, once again trying to tuck his bangs behind his ear, to little success. “Please,” he gestured at the empty chair on the other side of the table, “have a seat.”

“We’re on course for Yncoth and should arrive in approximately eight hours.” The General drew a starmap from the middle of a pile of flimsis, pointing at a star cluster in the upper-right quadrant. “We’ll drop out of hyperspace here, about three parsecs from where Grievous was last reported to be. Once we reach the planet’s gravitational field, we’ll split into two teams, us and the 501st, launching a multi-pronged assault.”

“Noted, sir,” Cody nodded mechanically. Obi-wan had sent out the same plan two times already to both he and Rex, practically word for word.  “But if I might, General, is that the reason you called me here? You did, uh, send that information to Rex and I already.” Cody shot the Jedi an apologetic half-smile. “Twice, actually.”

Obi-wan chewed on his lip, playing with the edge of the starmap, rolling the corner in and out so the flimsi furled at the edge. And then the Jedi stood without a word, the violent shriek of his chair scraping along the floor causing Cody to grab at his blaster, heart pounding through his chest. A fter a few moments of the General rummaging through a nearby closet, he returned to the table with a bottle of amber liquid, along with a small glass. 

Alarm blared at the front of Cody's mind. "Uh, General?" The clone enjoyed a good drink as much any other vod, but this  _really_  didn't seem the time to - 

But Obi-wan only scowled, sniffing at the liquid with a grunt of disgust. After a moment's thought, he placed both the now-full glass and bottle near the edge of the table, as far from him as he could without it toppling to the floor.

“What is,” Obi-wan began, drawing out the words as he grabbed a holopad stylus, twirling it between his fingers. “What is your assessment of our new guest?”

“Jinn?” Cody asked, already knowing there was no one else Obi-wan could be referring to. 

Obi-wan gave the hint of a nod, his gaze nearly boring into Cody. 

What could he say? The man, although holding rather unorthodox views of the war,  had been unfailingly polite, had taken the time to ask Cody a series of pointed questions about his men, his life as a soldier, his opinions on the Republic, even the origins of the vods' names. Cody had been genuine, if not a bit circumspect in some of his responses. He had no issue speaking about the vod and their culture, was grateful, even to have the opportunity to talk about his men with someone else. But he had given Jinn the boilerplate overview of the 212th and their activities - the one they saved for politicians deemed "mostly-trustworthy." After all, Obi-wan had only given the man a redacted map of the starship, and he was he was, according to his own words, "not a General."

But despite the minor deceit, which Cody was pretty certain the Jedi had seen through, it had been a pleasant interaction. Jinn’s odd humor had shone through at times, particularly when the man had stopped to admire a set of Nilurean Vine Creepers Thrasher and Nix had stashed in their bunks. Against regulation, of course.

More importantly, however, Qui-gon had always referred to Cody by name, never number, had asked for the name of every vod he met on the way, and never forgot one. 

And that, in light of everything that had happened with General Krell,  _meant_  something. 

“Well, General,” Cody steeled himself, “I think he’s a good man. Different, though, even for a Jedi.”

Obi-wan's smile stretched too thin across his face. “That, he is.”

“He respects the vod,” Cody continued, not sure why he felt the need to defend the near-stranger. “Calls us by name, doesn’t have to ask twice. He’s like you though.”

The stylus spinning between Obi-wan’s fingers came to a halt.

“And how’s that, Cody?”

“Sneaky. Pretended he was ignorant of military protocol, but knew my rank without me wearing any obvious insignia. Allowed me to lead him around the ship, but took careful note of the location of every bunk, every storage closet, and the route to the escape pods. Never once said the word ‘clone’ but asked all the...right questions about the vod, about our training, our background.”

Obi-wan hummed, the stylus now rocking back and between his two fingers.  There was a strange edge to the General, a kind of frenetic, nervous energy uncharacteristic to his usual controlled demeanor. Sure, the war was taking its toll on everyone - Jedi included - and Obi-wan, too, had shown signs of wear, no matter how vehemently he might deny it. But there was something about this new arrival, this Jinn, that was throwing the General off his game, badly.

Cody bit his lip, flipping through the nearest pile of starmaps. He had always been curious about Synaar. For as much as he had traveled, sometimes it felt as if he saw hyperspace more than actual planets. On his last furlough, Cody had gotten a hold of an outdated Republic travel guide, opening the datapad to a random page. Synaar, he had learned, was a planet full of natural hot springs, of wide, dense forests set against craggy mountains, the majority of the population inhabiting a thin strip of land near the coast. According to the datapad, the cuisine of Synaar was mostly fish-based. Cody thought he might like a place like that, although he was hard-pressed to say why. 

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“You know you always have that permission in this room, Cody.”

Cody took a deep breath. According to the information Obi-wan had sent him, Qui-gon was classified as a "Jedi guest of non-rank," meaning he did not have access to certain intel, but was afforded a bunk and mostly free movement on the ship. At the same time, the updated intelligence sheet had also instructed Cody to keep Jinn under "non-intrusive" surveillance, and that he had been taken off Coruscant as a safety precaution. It was an obvious cover, at least to someone who was familiar enough with the General's singular brand of verbal manipulation. And so Cody decided to voice the singular question that had been hounding him since Jinn's arrival. Ally or enemy, Cody needed to definitevly know how to deal with the man. 

"Is he dangerous, sir? To us, that is?"

Obi-wan barked out a ragged laugh, full of so much acid Cody thought a hole might have burned through the floor. 

“Only to himself.”

"Then why - "

“I’m afraid," Obi-wan interrupted, twisting his fingers together, "I may have given you the wrong impression with all of this subterfuge." The Jedi reached over to the edge of the table, grabbing the exiled glass. He took a long gulp, muttering under his breath before depositing the remains of the drink back into the bottle it came from, placing the container on the floor.

"Qui-gon and I…have a history.”

Now that caught the clone’s attention. A history? What kind of history? A grudge? Cody didn’t believe Obi-wan was capable of it, and besides, he was pretty sure the Jedi didn’t allow that kind of thing. So what else could it be? A broken friendship? Some fallout from the Hardeen episode? Heat rose up Cody's chest. Something kind of forbidden romance?

Cody squashed that last thought with a durasteel-hardened boot.

“Nothing that lurid, Cody,” Obi-wan spluttered, readjusting his tunics to hide his own neck, which had turned bright red with the understanding of Cody's assumptions. “Qui-gon is a good man. We needed to get him off Coruscant because of his…unique circumstances and I trust you and your men to keep an eye on him. Force knows he has the ability to find trouble in the most unlikely places.”

“Sounds a bit like another Jedi I know." Cody raised his eyebrows.

That elicited a strained chuckle from the General, who leaned back in his chair, folding one knee into his body, wrapping his arms around the limb, hugging it. It was an almost child-like posture, the way the General seemed to curl into himself, staring past the table, to some unknown point beyond the confines of the starship.

Cody shifted in his seat. “Sir?”

Obi-wan let out a deep sigh, running a hand over his face, pulling at the skin. After a moment’s consideration, he met Cody’s gaze, letting his foot fall to the floor.

“I suppose it will be better to get ahead of the rumor mill,” the Jedi said, mostly to himself, “and Force knows what kinds of assumptions the other men might be making.”

Cody tried to not look too guilty at the assertion as Obi-wan waved off the impending apology.

“No, there’s nothing to be sorry for, Cody. I realize this is all quite unusual, that I have not handled this situation to the best of my ability. And while I can’t, for many reasons, divulge all the details, the important thing for you, and the men to know is that Qui-gon is a good man, and a great Jedi.”

Obi-wan fixed him with a penetrating look.

“You should also know he’s my former Master.”

Cody's jaw dropped in silent exclamation.

“The…the dead one?" he stammered, already calculating the ways he could trick the General to the healer’s quarters. Sure, Cody thought the name had been somewhat familiar, but Obi-wan had been so tight-lipped about that portion of his past that the clone had passed off the similarity as mere chance.

_But now he believes this man is his old teacher, come back from the dead_   _?_   Cody eyed the partially-consumed bottle on the floor. Maybe Obi-wan was over-stressed. Cody had always thought he took on too much, that the Council took full advantage of him, that one day he was going to  _crack_  from the strain of it all. He just never thought it would happen like  _this._

But Obi-wan just shrugged, as if talking about the weather and not supernatural,  _impossible_  events. “The one and the same. It’s a complicated situation, Cody, but I assure you Master Jinn means no harm to you and your men. He just needs time to adjust to the reality we find ourselves in.”

Qui-gon's words from earlier came back to Cody.  _"There is never time."_  Cody was certain Qui-gon - or whoever he was - would adjust just fine. Whether Obi-wan was adjusting to whatever this was was a whole other matter. The man may have shared the same name, but to believe he was back from the dead, was walking, talking with him and the clones - Cody rubbed his face. He was out of his depth here. 

“So," Cody's mind raced for a plausible explanation of Obi-wan's sudden erratic behavior. "What you’re saying is that he was never really dead?” Another secret, another lie from the Jedi. It wasn't an explanation that would bring Cody any degree of joy, but at least it didn't defy the rules of the universe. Cody searched the General's face for any clues that this was the actual reality, but Obi-wan was as impassive as ever, steely grey-green eyes meeting Cody's own. 

_Kriffing kark hell, he's serious._

“I assure you, Cody, he died. I had front-row seat to that event, unfortunately.” Obi-wan's voice grew hoarse at the admission. 

“But how - “

“Unknown. For now, at least." Obi-wan stood, coming round the table. He kneeled next to Cody, gripping the clone's forearm. "I am not insane nor do I need to see Kix, Force help me." Obi-wan tightened his hand on Cody's arm. "Qui-gon, Anakin, even Ahsoka will, if nothing else, corroborate my words. But for now, we need to focus on Grievous, because if we can take him off the board, half the war will be won.”

“And Jinn?” Cody croaked, not knowing how to respond.

Obi-wan sighed, coming to stand. He pulled out a datapad from a toppling pile, a silent signal their meeting was nearing its end. “He’ll stay on the ship. The man is a beacon for trouble and Force only knows what he would attract if let loose in the galaxy.”

Cody mirrored the action, gathering his own datapad and helmet in his hands. "What do you think he'd attract, sir?"

Obi-wan met him with a dark look. "Someone he needs to stay far, far away from."

And with that ominous statement, Obi-wan re-took his seat at the table, hunching over his datapad, making furious notes on a spare piece of flimsi. Cody sighed, heading to the door. He would ask Rex to corroborate the assertion, would ask the Commander, General Skywalker. And then - well, as Obi-wan had said, they had a duty, and ending Grievous was their top priority.

Still, Cody thought as he rounded the corner to the canteen, it wouldn’t hurt to have a small conversation with Kix.

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, that's one hell of a claim, Obes. 
> 
> Next chapter - we'll tune into Rex, Anakin, and Ahsoka, and Qui-gon will make his appearance. Plus, either in that chapter or the next, Qui-gon will acquire an important piece of clothing. 
> 
> I also like the fact that Wookieepedia says GFFA gum is "chewstim."
> 
> And do not worry, friends, there is plenty Obi-wan/Qui-gon interaction coming. And my favorite Sith, too ;)
> 
> As always, come flail with me on tumblr at the Friendly Lego Compound [@legobiwan](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) or at the Lair of Mischievous Snakes [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH. MY. GOD. 
> 
> So, uh, I'm back! *does a little dance move, bows and removes hat*
> 
> This was originally supposed to be an Anakin, Rex, Ahsoka chapter but I could not for the life of me make it work, so I ended up cutting the chapter after weeks of denial. Ugh. ANYWAY, have a Qui-gon chapter in which he meets a new friend. This should be the last "slow" chapter before we get to space battle and Grievous. 
> 
> Fair warning: Tuppet is **not** the canonical Tup.

Qui-gon meandered through the endless, dark corridors of  _The Negotiator_. He had no destination in mind, no plan, no goal. Tortured metal howled as he ducked down a set of forgotten stairs, descending to the gloomy bowels of the ship.

There was much to learn about this new galaxy. The nature of the clones. The dark history of Grievous. The small, glimmering tidbits he had gathered from Anakin and Ahsoka - tales of Ahsoka's training, their adventures together, Anakin's strange forays into entomology - those were a welcome respite, but even they weren't enough to pull Qui-gon from the grey haze settling about him, an opaque, thirsty atmosphere which swallowed joy whole, regurgitating anxiety and despair.

Meditation _should_ have been the answer. But within ten minutes of being shown to his quarters, Qui-gon had leapt to his feet,  shoving the door open with a brutish push of his hand, letting out an unholy grunt of frustration as he stalked down a mercifully empty hallway, the Force howling after him.

The temptation had been tugging at him all day, pulling at his hand like a stubborn youngling, the dark urge to dive into the abyss, to _give in_ to his raw, tattered emotions. Qui-gon had reached, grasped for the Living Force, quickly and ruthlessly emptying his mind, navigating the ship on instinct alone, following tendrils of light, of existence through each corridor, closet, and hidden door. As calm restored itself, his internal balance recalibrating, Qui-gon's thoughts drifted. A silvery, gleaming web, a kind of astral map formed in his mind's eye, paths crisscrossing a dark landscape, a vast, almost tangible network of the Living Force. 

Up ahead was Anakin, grown into a strong, brave young man, still the child of prophecy. A warning in that same prophecy sounded in Qui-gon's inner ear, an omen pulsing in tandem with the alarm system he had tripped as he wandered through a weapons system storage space, each tone falling lower and lower as he strode towards the guts of the Star Destroyer, away from the frenzied wail of a dangerous, flawed prediction. He cascaded down an arm of the gossamer weave in the Force, landing next to an emerald hub, the intersection of several different-colored strands. Ahsoka, the brilliant, kind young woman grown up all too fast, her face interposed with the ghosts of Melida/Daan. Above him, a silver-blue thread quivered, near enough to overlook Anakin and Ahsoka, but still maintain its aloofness. Obi-wan...

Qui-gon climbed up the invisible stairs, two at a time. He paused on the landing, panting slightly. 

He could go no further. Here the web was so complex, so tangled he could barely tell one end from the other. And to undo the knots would require time he didn't have or...

Or a few quick slices of a knife.

_No, better to leave it untouched for now._

Qui-gon turned away, bearing left down a wide traverse.

Neat and orderly, patterns defined and predictable rose on either side. This was a well-regulated sector. Cody and Rex were good soldiers, good  _men_ who cared as much about those in their charge as those who were in charge of them.  Rex, capable of an innocent playfulness even in the midst of such devastating circumstance, the voice of reason, of balance in the triumvurate of himself, Anakin, and Ahsoka. Cody, a willing and friendly guide, who had answered all of Qui-gon’s questions with professional circumspect, giving just enough information to be this side of informative without endangering any of the larger secrets of the GAR.

A testament to the clone's training. Qui-gon could practically see Obi-wan’s fingerprints all over Cody’s shiny, white armor.

A cool breeze swept away the web, shimmering filaments fluttering away into the Force, as Qui-gon's ruminations were broken by an unexpected splash of cold liquid on his forehead. He glanced towards the exposed ceiling. Condensation was gathered on the high, metal beams, dripping at irregular intervals to the floor. He had wandered into the engine sector of the ship, tall pipes rising from a red-tinted durasteel surface, a veritable forest of metal and transparisteel.

_Clone._ Cody was a clone, one of hundreds, thousands on board this very ship. It hadn't been readily apparent to Qui-gon at first, so different were these men from each other, each one a unique presence in the Force, their appearance a reflection of their inner individuality. Rex, serious yet jovial, Qui-gon uncertain if his shock of blonde hair a natural deviation or a planned act of defiance. Fives, energetic as any young Padawan, an eponymous tattoo on his temple boasting his adopted moniker. Shy Denter, who sported armor that had been molded into a unique topographic map, undulations of mountains and valleys ornamenting his chest plate.

And yet, despite the almost overwhelming sea of personalities, there was a kind of electric current binding each clone on the ship in a way Qui-gon had never sensed before, their hearts one, their minds one, their obedience unquestioning to...

_To the Jedi_ , Qui-gon shivered. A single, unified voice of a thousand men, all shouting, “Yes, sir!” in perfect, terrifying unison.

Cloning was illegal in the Republic. Or, at least, it had been for as long as Qui-gon had been alive.But that, too, was another in the long list of adjustments he was going to have to make to acclimate to this new reality. A reality which was beginning to resemble more of a nightmare than a logical extension of the galaxy he had departed.

Soldiers, serving the Republic, the Jedi in a war against the Separatists. “We were bred for this!” heard echoing through the vents, a common rallying cry as the younger troops streamed through the hallways, their excitement at the prospect of real battle bubbling through the Force.

The young were always eager to prove their mettle, clone or not. And the Republic, the Council, Qui-gon sneered, seemed to have no problem taking advantage of this.

Qui-gon did not envy Obi-wan in his role as High Councillor, the hundreds of terrible decisions he had to make every day, the knowledge there was always another being, another planet suffering as a consequence of the Council's choices, a dark, omnipresent cloud looming over their heads. 

And yet, there was only so much the Jedi could do, bound as they were by the government, by their own Code, only so much they could control.

_The only thing you can control is how you react to things out of your control._

A bitter laugh escaped from Qui-gon, pinging off the metal pipework. Yes, and that once-wise sounding aphorism had worked so well for his former Master, who had chosen react to these very questions by turning to the Sith, by training a cyborg to conduct wholesale slaughter on the innocent, to declare war on the government, on the very home he had once sworn a solemn oath to protect.

And for what?

As a Jedi, Dooku may have been calculating, erring on the side of vicious, and more than once, Qui-gon had caught the worried whispers following his Master’s ever-darkening presence. But Dooku did everything for a reason, right down to the particular toothpaste he used. He would have full-well known the risks of joining the Sith, possibly more than Master Yoda himself, so well-versed had he been in their history, so many long nights had he spent in the Archives sifting through forbidden materials, Madame Nu watching quietly from the corner, a small, worried frown etched on her features.

No, something catastrophic must have occurred for him to join the Sith, to undergo such a drastic shift in personality, to forswear so much of what he had held as his personal ideals.

Pain blossomed behind Qui-gon's eyes, the murmur a headache that had been burgeoning since boarding this thrice-damned ship crescendoing to a jagged roar.

Nothing was as it had been. The home, the Order he once knew now a parody of its former self. His Master, twisted by the Dark Side, the blood of thousands, possibly millions of innocents on his hands. And his own student, now a brilliant man, Jedi Master and Council member, the very definition of Jedi, haunted by spectres of the past Qui-gon couldn’t even begin to understand.

Qui-gon draped his upper body over a metal railing, defeated. Somewhere below him laid the main hyperdrive core, surrounded by stasis fields, shields, quantum generators, and a whole host of other engineering marvels Qui-gon struggled to recount the terms for. _Energy containment. Stabilization. Gate modulators. Oh, Force._ Qui-gon let out a loud, ragged laugh. He had inadvertently stumbled straight into the arms of the first of several reactor rooms that fed the ship's engines. _Seems I have a natural predilection for finding myself in such places_ , he rued, leaning his elbows on the railing as vivid memories of Naboo played out in the darkness below.

“Force willing," he spoke to the empty, dark underbelly of the ship, "there will be no Sith here to send me to my death. Again.” His own despondent voice echoed back at him. A _ghost of a ghost_ , Qui-gon mused.

“Sith?”

Qui-gon spun around, hand reaching at his empty belt, annoyance at the reminder of his lack of weapon only superseded by his extreme displeasure that for not the first time today, his Jedi senses failed him. _First Ahsoka, now this,_ he swore under his breath, eyeing the new entity who had been hiding in the same room with him for the past few minutes.

_Easy, Jinn._ Qui-gon pushed away at the crimson shadow encroaching on his Force presence. _You’ve been dead for ten years._   _Have patience._

Taking a deep breath, Qui-gon folded his hands together at his waist, adopting his best diplomatic smile. Tucked between two large, dented heavy particle reflector boxes was a man. Dressed in grey-green pants and a tunic, streaks of engine grease raced down the man's shirt, intersecting in a chaotic snarl reminiscent of a speeder accident at his torso. The solider’s small, triangular hat sat to the side in a sad, crumpled heap of fabric, where a wire tunnel connector dripped light-blue liquid onto the forgotten item.

Oddly familiar brown eyes stared back at Qui-gon, the same eyes he had seen in Cody, Rex, and the thousands of other clones he had passed on his brief time aboard the ship.

“I heard about them Sith, from the other  _vod._ Bad batch, aren’t they? Dooku and all ‘em, killing shinies and all.” A look of sheer terror overcame the young clone as came to stand with a series of awkward, jerky movements.“Oy, but you said they were _here!_  "  He slapped his forehead, leaving a trail of grease above the bridge of his nose. " _Kriff_ , I just got assigned to this ship, I gotta do something. Call the Commander. No, but I’m only a - but they said in emergencies…” Shaky hands reached into a nearby satchel hanging off a scorched set of sagging data cables. Judging from the several layers of hastily-applied speed tape keeping them semi-intact, the ship had seen more action than repair - at least more repair than the Senate was willing to pay for - over the past few months.

“Peace, friend,’ Qui-gon held out a palm, doing his best to send the message _calm_ through the Force as the clone's comm device clattered down the stairs to an ignominious end. “It was a turn of phrase.”

The young clone gaped at Qui-gon like an Alderaanian snapfish before realization washed over his features. He let out a despondent moan, leaning back against the wire-trimmed, taped panel, his body to sagging to the floor.

“I _kriffed_ it up again, didn’t I?” he sighed, rubbing at his temples. “I mean, if there were a real Sith on board, the General would probably know. It’s like they’ve been saying,” the clone gestured at an imaginary audience, “‘Tups, you got a case of the yips, how are you gonna fight the Seppies when you’ve jumping every time you hear a bad word?”

The clone reached into a nearby box, picking a hydrospanner from the pile of tools, twirling the item in his hand. “That’s why they’ve got me down here, you know. In the deepest, darkest engine room.” 

“I wouldn't worry about that, my friend," Qui-gon settled himself against a burnt-out instrument panel he hoped to the Force wasn't still in use. "In my experience, most beings rise to the occasion they’re presented with.” 

A broken laugh sounded from the other man. “Yeah, well, might be better if I could just do what I was bred for. But what are you doin' down here, anyway, talkin’ 'bout Sith, skulking around in those clothes? You think you’re some kind of Jedi?” the clone pointed at Qui-gon's flimsi, long-sleeved tunic. 

Qui-gon shivered at the suggestion, rubbing at his upper arms. It took an immense amount of power to fuel hyperspace travel on a ship as large as this, and as a preventative measure, engine rooms were generally kept at temperatures Qui-gon considered to be inviting only to tauntauns. 

“The General's one 'em, kind of a legend," the clone lit up with excitement. "Do you know he took out an entire army of Magna Guards? In the middle of a bomb blast, no less - no scratches, no nothin'! That man could walk through fire and come out fresh the other side. I'm sure _he_ wouldn't be cold down here.”

_Oh for Force’s sake, Padawan_. Obi-wan most certainly would not have emerged from any of these hyperbolic situations unscathed. Quite the opposite, in fact, if his track record of landing in the Healer's Wing as a Padawan was any indicator. Qui-gon could only imagine the havoc an adult Obi-wan brought down on poor Vokara Che when anyone actually managed to drag him to medical after any of these supposed miracles. 

“No, friend, I suppose he wouldn't be cold."  _He would be freezing, like me._  "And to your question, I am no Jedi."

A necessary evasion. If Qui-gon revealed himself as a Jedi, it would raise too many questions, would cause the young soldier to clam up at the exact moment Qui-gon had the opportunity to learn more about the galaxy without a filter, without fear of alarming him or speaking ill of the Jedi in his presence. As well-meaning as Anakin and Ahoksa's intentions may have been, it wasn't a candid conversation, not with the long shadows both his Master and Padawan cast over Qui-gon's presence, the way the two would exchange furtive looks whenever Dooku or Obi-wan was brought up. No, Qui-gon needed information, facts unburdened by the expectations and pressures of military order, of the presumption that he, as a supposed Jedi, was a military leader. 

And, it was the truth, from a certain point of view. Qui-gon  _wasn't_ technically a Jedi right now. He would always be a servant of the living Force, but whether or not that came with the express consent of the Council was not something he felt the need to consider too deeply at the moment. Not when the term "Jedi" had become so complicated in light of the war.

“I am a representative of the Republic,” Qui-gon improvised. “Press relations staff. Here to do a census, make a few reports, you know how it is. I’m a guest of the General, actually.” A harmless beauracrat. Exactly the type of being who could wander into a secure, critical engine room on a military vessel wth no ulterior intentions. Qui-gon made a small wave of his hand for emphasis, imbuing the movement with a bit of Force suggestion. He could feel the waves of Obi-wan’s future disapproval churning at the shores of his own Force presence. 

“Ah yeah, I guess...I guess that makes sense,” the clone said, his voice muffled as he bent over, digging through a burlap bag. “Always some kind of government official or something poking their nose 'round on these types of things. Or at least that's what I've heard. Not sure how much I can help you, but,” the clone straightened, shoving brown bundle under Qui-gon’s nose. “Here.”

Qui-gon considered the messy clump of fabric. “A blanket?” he surmised, letting the edge drop to the floor.

“Better than that!” The clone flipped the hydrospanner in his hand with an easy movement, plunging the pointed end through the middle of the fabric, ripping open a ragged hole.

“Now you can keep warm!"

“Indeed I can,” Qui-gon gaped at the hastily-created outerwear, adopting a strained smile as he threw the garment on. He had to admit it _was_ warm, far more suitable for the elemental rigors of hyperspace travel than the clothing the Council had provided him with.

“Thank you. I don’t believe you’ve formally introduced yourself.”

“Name’s Tuppet, sir.”

“Well, Tuppet, my name is Qui-gon Jinn. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

 

* * *

 

Tuppet was an enthusiastic if somewhat peculiar conversation partner. Perched atop an old, boxy transponder like a Naurellian bird of prey, the clone had been eager to share his experiences, and soon Qui-gon had learned all about the mysterious planet Kamino and its native cloners, who worked in tandem with the Jedi and the Republic government. Born in tubes, raised in isolation, their captors their caretakers, the clones were barely a day older than Ahsoka, teenagers whose bodies were hardly their own as they matured at an exponential rate, the aging process leveling off at the exact second their DNA trackers indicated them to be, in the words of the Kaminoans, in "delta combat prime."

_ And here I was upset a single Padawan was being sent into active battlezones when the Republic is creating veritable child armies._

As to just how the order to create a clone army came about - well, on that Tuppet was less helpful. There was little time (and little inclination, Qui-gon suspected) to wade through history's lessons when ships to navigate, bombs to diffuse, and weapons to operate. 

“Must you fight, though?" Qui-gon croaked, not ready to admit the conclusion his subconscious had come to an hour ago. All them - the Republic, the Jedi -  _Obi-wan_   - were complicit in state-sanctioned slavery. "I mean, I know this is what you were trained for, but don't you ever have a desire to do something else?” he pushed, willing Tuppet to say anything that might exonerate the Order.

“Well, I don’t know, sir." Tuppet scratched the back of his head with his hydrospanner, perplexed. "We all have a part in this war - some in the engines, some in the fields. We can't _not_ fight, you know? It's in our blood. We were bred for this, after all. I guess the only question I've ever wondered about is what will happen once we win the war. I mean, our whole duty is to fight, right? To protect the Republic and the Jedi. I guess we’ll just keep doing that one way or another once that _shabuir_ Dooku gets his.”

The young man laughed, oblivious to the portentous roar in the Force, the hammering of Qui-gon's heart, so strong he thought it would burst through his chest.

“Of course, we could get decommissioned. At least that’s what Zipper said,” Tuppet continued amiably. “Something about a kill-switch bill in the Senate. But Zip’s always saying something to scare us, so the whole thing is probably a bunch of _mirdnaas_. Plus, that buckethead wouldn’t understand a Senate bill if it walked up and punched him in the jaw, that's Zip for you.”

Qui-gon forgot to breathe.

_Decommission._  

Ships were decommissioned, droids were decommissioned. People - living, breathing beings, who were part of the Force - they were  _sacred._

“The Jedi," Qui-gon rasped, surprised at the layer of vitriol creeping into his words, thankful for the poncho hiding his tightly-gripped fingers, "certainly wouldn’t allow that.”  _Obi-wan wouldn't, couldn't allow that._

Tuppet gave a too-easy smile. “ _Har'chaak_ , Mr. Qui-gon, this is got all you all upset! You shouldn't worry 'bout me! None of the Generals I've heard about would ever agree to it. I mean, sure, the Jedi get their orders from the Senate and the Chancellor, so I don’t know how much choice they’d have in the end. But we can't worry about that until the war's over.”

But Qui-gon was worried _now_. This bill had made it to the Senate floor, and the politicians who controlled the purse-strings of the Republic, of the Jedi, could easily vote 'yes' on mass euthanization. Qui-gon could name any number of Senators who wouldn't blink an eye at such a premise, as long as their coffers were filled with credits, offices lined with art, and beds warm with whoever they desired. Worse yet, the Ruusan Reformation ensured any Jedi who interfered with such a decision would be charged with treason and expelled from the order, at best. The fact Obi-wan had, so far, remained unscathed after his misadventure on Mandalore was nothing short of a miracle in this climate.

Qui-gon shook his head. No, it was impossible. There had to be another way. A choice. For one, these clones were technically underage, and as far as he knew, the Republic still outlawed execution of minors brought up on state criminal charges, which was far more extreme than any fake offense the clones could be pinned with. Public opinion might not be on their side, nor the Republic, but there was always a way. 

He would make sure of it.

Before he know what he was doing, Qui-gon took the clone by both shoulders with trembling hands, fingers gripping warm flesh and muscle, his racing heartbeat synchronous with Tuppet's own. The young man flushed bright red, his eyes skipping around the room. A minor Force compulsion wrested the clone's eyes from their distraction, bringing Tuppet's gaze level with Qui-gon's own steely, unforgiving stare.

“There is _always_ a choice, Tuppet," Qui-gon stated, imbuing as much meaning as he physically could into the words. "Don't you  _ever_ forget that."

Tuppet shuffled, uncomfortable, unable to break from Qui-gon's unrelenting attention. The clone pushed around a few loose insulations pads with his right foot.

“But do you think," Tuppet hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Do you ever feel like maybe there’s not?”

Qui-gon’s grip slackened. 

“Nah, nevermind," Tuppet waved his hand, stepping back from the Jedi, his voiced laced with defeat. "Zip told me it was crazy. Eh, he’s probably right. ‘You’re going off on your conspo theories again, Tups,’ he’ll say to me, like, 'You should lay off the _tikaar_ there, lad.’ I mean, I don’t even _drink."_

Tuppet paused, his head quirking back and forth, reminiscent of a Kothar pup. "Someone's coming," he announced.

Clipped bootsteps heralded the predicted arrival of a new party, the cavernous room multiplying each step of the stranger, turning one man into a million as sound traveled to every empty corner.

_"Kriff!"_ hissed Tuppet, all strange melancholy forgotten as he jerked around, arms swinging wildly, sending the entirety of his toolbox crashing to the floor in an ear-splitting cacophony. A familiar shock of ginger hair bobbed into view as the footsteps crescendoed, playing hide-and-seek with a large diffusion pipe that blocked all of Obi-wan's body save the top of his head and boots.

“It’s the General!” Tuppet whispered, urgent, pulling Qui-gon to his side as he fished for his hat with his opposite hand. 

Obi-wan rounded the corner, now in full view. He stopped short at what would have been a comical tableau in any other situation - Tuppet’s arm wrapped in the crook of Qui-gon’s elbow, a parody of a lover's embrace as Qui-gon remained frozen in a half-kneel, poncho swaying back and forth in the breeze, dust flying upwards with each movement. Tuppet started at the sight of the General, whipping his arm into a crisp salute, clipping the edge of Qui-gon’s long-suffering nose.

“Sir!” Tuppet exclaimed, the echoes of his address mingling with the clattering of the clone’s hydrospanner, which had flown out of his hand with the frenzied movement, now hitting every possible surface on its long, one-way journey to the bottom of the reactor shaft.

Obi-wan crossed his arms in front of his chest, expression neutral. 

“At ease, soldier,” Obi-wan ordered softly. “You are new to the 212th. As of last week, am I right?”

“Yes, sir," Tuppet squeaked. "Exactly a week, sir. Name’s Tuppet. Sir. Just got assigned to the 212th as, er..." The clone’s eyes fell as he spotted the fallen array of hardware splattered across the floor. "...an engineer?” 

Obi-wan hummed, righting the overturned toolbox with his foot, not taking his eyes off of Tuppet. A torque wrench floated upwards, joined by a set of screwdrivers, then wire cutters, each tool gliding neatly into its allotted slot. “Only a week and here you are already making friends with Jedi in the bowels of a Star Destroyer," Obi-wan sang, paying no need to the seemingly sentient hardware." Next to Qui-gon, Tuppet gaped. "I must say, your initiative is quite commendable, even if your methods are a bit...unconventional."

The last hydrospanner fell into its spot with a small  _clink._ "That's better," Obi-wan said to himself as he shuffled his hands together, crossing an arm over his chest, taking his chin with the other, raising a single, inquisitive eyebrow in Tuppet's direction. 

"I'm real sorry sir," the clone's words tumbled out a parsec a second. "I didn't mean to, I - I was down here tryin' to fix the heat valve regulator, and then I met Mr. Qui-gon, and I think he was lost or something, but we had real good talk and I lost track of time and I won't do it again, please don't tell the Commander!"

“Is that so?” Obi-wan drawled, for the first time turning his full attention to Qui-gon. It was all the older Jedi could do to not wither under Obi-wan's critical gaze.  _Force, he's gotten good at that in the past ten years. Almost better than Dooku._

“Tuppet, your apology is accepted and all is forgiven. On the condition," Obi-wan's eyes did not leave Qui-gon's as he spoke. "You can tell me _exactly_ what Qui-gon is doing here.”

“Oh, I know the answer to this one, sir!"  Tuppet beamed, practically bouncing on his toes, pride singing through the Force. " He’s with the Republic! Doing a census, I think. You know, reports, and the like. He's your guest!” 

Obi-wan nodded with a small, encouraging smile. "Very good, Tuppet. Indeed, he is my guest, and is apparently moonlighting as a government employee and fashion designer in his free time.” Obi-wan sighed, allowing his arms to drop in calculated disappointment, his features collapsing into the perfect image of exasperation. “You know, Qui-gon, when I said to get some rest, this wasn’t what I meant.”

“You didn’t say anything otherwise. Or much at all, for that matter," Qui-gon retorted. "I took it to mean my activities were meant to be self-directed. I asked the Force for guidance, at it led me here to Tuppet.” Qui-gon patted at the grimy fabric laying over his torso. "And this poncho," he added as an afterthought.

"Are you saying the _Force_ told you to wander off to the reactor room?" Obi-wan asked, incredulous. "How did you even know where this was, I didn't give you a map to this area."

"And this is not my first time on a Republic vessel, Obi-wan. If you would care to remember."

“Uh, beggin' pardon, sirs," Tuppet interrupted, his eyes flitting between both men, uncomfortable. "But does this mean Mr. Qui-gon _isn’t_ part of the Republic government? Did I get it wrong?”

Both Jedi turned to Tuppet, exchanging a well-practiced look as the young clone stood fascinated by the exchange. 

“ _Mr_. Qui-gon," Obi-wan growled, "is part of the Republic, despite any assertions that may have been made to the contrary. What he may have forgotten to mention to you is that he is  _also_ a Jedi.”

Tuppet’s eyes grew several sizes as he shuffled backwards into the transponder with a loud bang. “You’re a General?” he gasped.

Qui-gon balled a fist. There was no galaxy in which the terms “General” and “Jedi” should be synonymous. “Not exactly, it’s a complicated - “

“What Master Jinn means to say," Obi-wan interrupted, "is he was away for some time and hasn’t been cleared for active duty yet. Isn’t that right, Qui-gon?” And there was one of _those_ looks from Obi-wan. Qui-gon’s gut twisted at the familiarity, the ease with which they were able to communicate with a single glance. 

Even if the message was for Qui-gon to shut up and play along. 

“Oh, yes,” Qui-gon agreed, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. “Undercover mission. It’s been quite a long time, and it seems as if I’ve missed a lot. I do apologize for the ruse, Tuppet, but I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable in my presence.” That much was true. Qui-gon hadn't meant to deceive Tuppet. Well, he had never meant for his deception to be caught, anyway.

“No need to apologize, sir!" Tuppet's smile was a parsec wide. "That’s two Jedi I’ve met today! Wait'll I tell Zips, he's never gonna believe it! The General and the General's friend." Tuppet paused, fixing Qui-gon with a calculating look.  "Wow, sir, you  must be _really_ important to have not been in the war from the start, General Qui-gon, sir.”

_ Hardly important _ , Qui-gon thought.  _I didn't live long enough to see the war begin. Nor was I wise enough to forestall its arrival._

But a strange look passed over Obi-wan’s face at the statement. “He is indeed,” he murmured, the Force wringing a blue-green braid around his words. “In fact, we’re bringing him up to speed right now. Speaking of which,” Obi-wan turned to Qui-gon. “We’ll be in position soon and there a few matters I’d like to discuss with you.”

_Here we go_ , thought Qui-gon. 

“Of course, Obi-wan." Qui-gon turned to the young clone. "Tuppet, it was a pleasure to meet you.” Qui-gon rattled off a sloppy salute, Obi-wan's face pinching in annoyance at the flagrant disregard of protocol. Qui-gon bit back self-satisfied grin. He wasn't winning many battles these days, but at least he could have this one. “May the Force be with you.”

"Oh, you too, General Qui-gon! The pleasure was all mine, believe me!" Tuppet waved after the pair.  "Keep the poncho!"

 

* * *

 

“Congratulations on your recent career changes, Qui-gon. I’m sure the Council will be thrilled to hear the news.”

Qui-gon flitted his gaze over to Obi-wan. Even at a young age, Obi-wan had exhibited a frustrating tendency towards deadpan humor, a characteristic which was only exacerbated as Obi-wan had gained greater control of his Force presence and could obfuscate his true feelings, projecting an infuriating facade of indifference as he delivered the most wicked and impertinent one-liners, a calculated risk which more often than not earned the young Obi-wan at least an extra two days of chores and homework. Now, Qui-gon held no such leverage, could feel nary a flicker of emotion from the man walking right beside him. Obi-wan was the placid lakes of Vnataar, their surface pristine, wholly undisturbed, almost unreal. An extraordinary feat, to be able to mask one’s self so _utterly_  in the Force. 

A second inspection, however, revealed the tiniest of fractures, the deep lakebed shifting in increments, speckles of dirt swirling with restrained motion. Obi-wan’s seemingly permanent sour demeanor softened, a flicker of wry amusement playing on the younger man’s features - a small, but for Qui-gon, brilliant light of _hope._

"Please, for the sake of all of us," Obi-wan grumbled, just loud enough for Qui-gon to hear. "Retire from fashion. I'm sure you had a good run, but I do believe Master Yoda would be upset if you attempted to usurp his status as the premiere model of the Republic."

Qui-gon grinned, relishing the fleeting moment, the nostalgia for how things were before. 

Or at least what he thought they had been.

“This way,” Obi-wan said, leading Qui-gon into a cramped storage area, closing the door with a wave of his hand. 

Pale light illuminated the dusty room with a kind of ghostly pallor. Only now did Qui-gon recognize the  beginnings of wrinkles on the younger man's face - thin folds not noticeable until they were in such close confines, hoarding shadows in their crevices.

The cold reality of the inexorable passage of time settled on Qui-gon's chest, a leaden weight. Obi-wan wasn't a child anymore, couldn't even be qualified as a naive adult. In front of him stood an accomplished man in his mid-thirties, someone who had lived an entire lifetime without Qui-gon, a distinct being with a parallel, alien existence from what Qui-gon even knew of him. It wasn't that Qui-gon hadn't experienced this before - after all, Obi-wan hadn't been his first Padawan - but he had barely seen Freemor again after their polite, if distant parting, and as for Xanatos...

Well, he had been too intent on trying to _survive_ those encounters to have the time to wrestle with the greater implications of his student growing up, becoming an adult, seeing the same worries, same fears, same obstacles play out in a million different ways in front of his very eyes, and being able to do nothing about it. Obi-wan would age, would die, just as he had, and would again. And while all beings passed into the Force, while it was a moment for rejoicing, a traitorous, selfish part of Qui-gon mourned the notion that Obi-wan would have to endure that same fate at all.

“I need to talk to you,” Obi-wan said.

Qui-gon almost laughed. Now, of all times, in this dirty, glorified closet? “Are you sure, Obi-wan? Our conversations haven’t exactly been ending well.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the century. Their so-called conversations thus far had included a near fist-fight, public drunkenness, two very uncomfortable confrontations with the Council, and being what Qui-gon suspected was being smuggled aboard a top-secret military vessel. 

“Don’t give me that look, Obi-wan,” Qui-gon replied to Obi-wan’s muted scowl. “I may not be able to pierce your seemingly impenetrable emotional armor, but you are scant hours away from facing what I have heard is a formidable foe. Perhaps this is a conversation we should have after your mission. I’d rather you not engage this Grievous character unbalanced." From what he had learned from Tuppet, Grievous was nothing to take lightly, having been trained by none other than his former Master himself, the moniker "the butcher of Res'kalik" only the newest in a series of bloody names the foul creature had earned over the past year, his thirst for Jedi blood only outmatched by his desire to personally see to Obi-wan's slow and painful execution. 

Obi-wan's lipped thinned.  "You give yourself far too much credit, Qui-gon.”

"Perhaps I don't give myself enough," Qui-gon answered, his words firey. "But if you are so confident in the matter, perhaps we can begin by discussing what happened outside that bar, or the reason I am still sporting this marvelous bruise on my right cheek? I believe I have been underestimating myself in this regard."

Obi-wan's eyes widened a fraction, the Force opening to a pinprick in tandem. For the first time since his return, Qui-gon was allowed the briefest of glimpses into Obi-wan's inner world, a landscape which, at one time, he was almost as familiar with as his own. But instead of the tropical, colorful oasis he had come to know - its bright flowers, twisting trails, calm sea all surrounded by circle of rolling, verdant mountains - Qui-gon was hit by a blast of frigid air, the same terrain turned rocky, windswept and forbidding, any attempt to traverse a test of strength and will.

Qui-gon bent over, plucking a small flower that had beaten the odds, growing out the crevice between two large boulders, its petals soft, its fragrance soothing. He pocketed the flower as reality warped, hurtling him back to the here and now. 

Across from him, Obi-wan paled, wrapping an unsteady arm across his abdomen. "I..." the younger man grasped for the right words. "I agree, Qui-gon. We do need to talk about," Obi-wan gestured at the empty space between the two of them. "This. But not now. I have a duty to keep those under my protection safe, and that is why I need to speak with you."

_ And who is keeping *you * safe, Padawan? _

Grey-blue eyes found Qui-gon's own as the shadow of the answer "inconsequential" traveled through the network of the Living Force. If Qui-gon had been feeling more optimistic, if he harbored a higher level of hope this tattered relationship could be salvaged, he might have chalked up the phantom response to the remains of their old training bond, which had been, Qui-gon assumed, abruptly destroyed after his murder. While all Jedi were capable of communicating through the Force, the Master-Padawan relationship stood alone as cultivating the strongest connection, something akin to the thick cables transmitting tens of thousands of data parcels per day on the Holonet. Of course, there other types of connections - thin cables, more tenuous bonds between colleagues and acquaintances which would, in essence, function in the same manner, but not with the speed, not with the intuition or emotional closeness of that between student and teacher. There was no official method of ending such a connection, no ceremony or spectacle - the promotion to Jedi Knight, the eventual distancing of Padawan from Master allowed the bond to naturally fade. But despite this unassuming end, it was still considered an integral, vital part of the relationship.

Qui-gon wondered just how thoroughly Obi-wan had tried to divest himself of any remains of their once-strong connection.

"Have you sensed anything from Dooku?"

Speaking of Master-Padawan bonds. Qui-gon's connection with his former Master had never been without difficulty, he, a student of the Unifying Force, Qui-gon, an acolyte of the Living. But even beyond their conflicting orientations, theirs had been a tentative bond, one of necessity in some ways, as Dooku kept so much of himself shrouded in darkness, the mystery as to who he truly was never solved by the young Qui-gon. And while Qui-gon was the closest living being to Dooku outside of Yoda himself, one who might have the best chance of locating him, it did not mean he could act as some kind of homing beacon for the man.

At least, he hoped not.

“Obi-wan, it had been many years since we had spoken  _before_  my death. Considering the drastic changes he’s been gone through - “ Wholesale slaughter was quite the personality change, after all. “I doubt I’d recognize him in the Force even if I tried.”

"Would he recognize you?"

"I - I don't know." He didn't. Qui-gon had never thought their partnership close enough to sustain that kind of connection, and as he had said, it had been years since they had spoken, Dooku having sequestered himself on Serenno with his esoteric, cryptic activities. The calculating look Obi-wan was giving him, however, set off all kinds of alarms in the back of Qui-gon's mind. Yes, Dooku was a Sith, yes, he needed to be dealt with, but there was only so much Qui-gon could do, or say to aid in this matter. Blood could not be wrested from a stone, and yet the Council and Obi-wan seemed intent on pushing at this connection at nearly every interaction.

Obi-wan hummed in response, chin in hand, whatever his motivations still a mystery to Qui-gon.

“You’re shielding?” 

“As best I can when necessary, but I am only a few days removed from death, Obi-wan. My control of the Force is…” Qui-gon held a hand out, flexing his fingers, fascinated by the play of lines and sinews. He floated a case of expired ration bars a few feet in the air, the object to teetering back and forth before landing with a small  _thud._ “Inconsistent.”

“I suppose it’s no matter at this juncture,” Obi-wan waved a nonchalant hand with forced ease. “We will deal with the situation as it arises. My second point is of far more importance, anyway.”

And now Qui-gon had no idea what to expect. What was more important than the Sith? Than this war? Something to do with Anakin, or Ahsoka? Mandalore, even? But any further speculation was silenced as two strong hands wrapped themselves around Qui-gon’s upper arms. It took every ounce of control, all the Force he could muster to not jump in surprise at the unexpected physical contact.

Obi-wan’s eyes bored into his. 

“Qui-gon.” The pressure around his arms increased. “Whatever differences between us at the moment - I…” Obi-wan grit his teeth. “I need something from you.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Qui-gon, each one amounting to a single word, a single notion. _Yes, of course, yes_. Obi-wan was in need of his help. What else could Qui-gon do but agree? 

“Of course, Padawan,” Qui-gon responded quickly, noting with small pleasure Obi-wan didn’t recoil from the instinctual use of the term. “What do you need?”

“Your word.”

A beat. Confusion - blank, utter bewilderment, wild and cold in the Force. 

"I mean, yes, whatever you - "

Obi-wan held up a hand, silencing the other man. “Don’t answer me yet. Hear me out. I need you to _think_ about this.”

Why? It was no question to Qui-gon, nothing he needed to consider. There was only one answer, there could only be one answer after all this time. Qui-gon would make sure of it, he would make it _right._

“Listen. Please,” Obi-wan pleaded, his palm inches from Qui-gon’s mouth, the older’s man breath warm on Obi-wan’s charred glove. “No matter what reports you might hear, no matter what Grievous tries to do, and _especially_ if for some reason Dooku shows up - “ Obi-wan swallowed. “Qui-gon, I need you to promise to stay on the ship. There is no reason, none whatsoever - short of my own evacuation order - that you should leave this vessel.”

A small shake of his head. No, that wouldn’t do, not one bit. “But Obi-wan, what if you - “

“What happens to me is inconsequential. It doesn’t matter.”

Qui-gon’s jaw dropped. _It matters very much to me._

“No, stop. I know what you're thinking,  _no_." Obi-wan pointed a finger at Qui-gon, the perfect image of the disapproving teacher. "Someone will find me. I have encountered far worse than this mission, and emerged mostly unscathed,” Obi-wan smiled, corners not quite reaching his eyes. "You, on the other hand, are two days removed from literal death, have weak control of your Force abilities, no lightsaber, and practically no intelligence concerning our enemies. And, technically, you're still my prisoner. 

Qui-gon sighed, running a hand over his hair. _What a fine time to bring that up again. _ He half-expected to see a set of manacles appear in Obi-wan's hands.

“Your word, Qui-gon. I need your word on this."

Of course. A decision to stand aside as his student continued his disturbing streak of masochism, to _allow_ him to be hurt when Qui-gon could help, could _do_ something, Force or not.

Or, he would break his word. Smash the fragile trust crystallizing between the two men. To do what he must and damn the consequences. 

To act for the greater good.

 

_"Every tinpot despot, every slaver, every tyrant you encounter, Qui_ - _gon, will tell you the same thing. 'I am acting for the greater good.'  Even the Jedi proclaim this when we ignore a call for help, or submit ourselves to the Republic government, servile and castrated. It's simple arithmetic. Subtraction by addition. Some days the positive will outweigh the negative, others it won't. On rare occasions you will find you are only adding a negative to a negative, compounding your issues. And then you learn - simple arithmetic is a tricky thing."_

_"What are we to do, then, Master? We must act in some way."_

_Dooku sighed, casting his gaze at the violent yellow-maroon sunset._

_"We do what we must, Qui-gon. We follow the Force. We think. And...we act for the greater good."_

 

“Fine,” Qui-gon relented, forcing himself to keep his eyes trained on the other man’s. “My word, Obi-wan.”

_ May I be able to keep it, and _ you.

Obi-wan's shoulders sagged, his relief palpable. "Good."

The high-pitched shimmer of hyperspace fell to a growling tenor as the ship’s engines slowed, preparing for the transition to real-space. The Force danced with the whispers of nearby life.

“Come,” Obi-wan said. “It’s high time we got you caught up to speed.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say I love Tuppet, he is so awkwardly endearing. I should have picked a different name but I wrote it in a very early draft of this and it just stuck.
> 
> Next chapter: Put your helmets on friends, because we're gearing up for a SPACE BATTLE!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at the Friendly Lego Compound [@legobiwan](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) or [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/)


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